


What goes around ...

by Romantika



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, M/M, Rating: G for chapters 1 to 11 E here and there thenceforward, departs from canon during series 3 episode 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 45,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantika/pseuds/Romantika
Summary: AU: Thomas is dismissed without a reference after the "incident" with Jimmy, but this may be a blessing in disguise. Unknown to him people in high(er) places are looking out for him, and his future turns out to be stranger and more fulfilling than he could ever have imagined.
Comments: 126
Kudos: 140





	1. An End and a Beginning

“My hands are tied.”

Carson’s words were a death-knell. Thomas felt his gut twist, bile came into his mouth, and tears sprang in his eyes. He took a very slow, very deep breath.

“So, there is no more to be said than that?”

“I cannot …”

“In spite of some of your words to me yesterday, I repeat that I am not foul. I am different from you, but not foul …only, it would seem, foolish.”

“Mr Barrow, I … “

“No, please do me the justice of hearing me out, since you will likely never hear my voice again.”

Carson stared at his desk.

“I am no monster, sir, just a fool … for love, as it happens, though you may never understand that. I was not merely “drawn to” Mr Kent, I love him, heart and soul. Foolishly, I thought that he might feel the same. It does happen, you know … I am surprised that a man with your theatrical past never encountered such … “

“Mr Barrow, _really_ …”

“Don’t worry, Mr Carson, I’m almost done. I have worked well for this house, and you know it. That I leave without a reference is more a comment upon you than it is upon me: that is all. Now I shall go to my room and pack my suitcase. Fear not,” he added through gritted teeth, “the stain upon this place will be gone by dinner-time.”

Carson closed his eyes, and blew out a breath between pursed lips. “Thank you, Mr Barrow.”

*

Thomas encountered no-one on his way upstairs, no-one came to his room as he packed his few personal belongings into two rather battered suitcases. He stripped the linen from his bed, folded it neatly, and brushed and hung his livery in the wardrobe. A few clothes, a few books, a photograph or two, a last look round, another deep breath, and a sigh. Then, shoulders squared, he set off down the service stairs for the last time.

He hoped he would see no-one as he passed through the servants’ hall either, but there was Anna, waiting it would seem. She also appeared very agitated.

“Thomas”, she whispered, “I must speak with you.”

“Why?”

“I have a message from Lady Mary.”

“Really? What does it say? “ _Good-bye and drop dead_ ”, or something similar, I imagine.” He almost smiled.

“Honestly, Thomas! She told me that you should go to the Grantham Arms, where you will find a room has been reserved for you. You may stay there as long as you wish, but please be seen in the Snug of an evening, since you will have a visitor.”

“Who? Prince Charming? Sergeant Willis? … or the Angel of Death, perhaps?”

Anna huffed exasperatedly, “Oh Thomas, I don’t know, I am just the messenger.”

“Hmf … well, beggars can’t be choosers I suppose. Please thank Her Ladyship for me, though I can hardly think why she would care … “

“That’s as maybe, Thomas, but she was most insistent.”

“Nothing unusual there. Lady Mary generally gets her way … but … thank you … really.”

“Well, I must be going. I have a hem to repair on one of her favourite evening dresses.”

“Oh, yes, the show must go on. Good-bye, Anna.”

“Good-bye, Thomas”.

With a nod, she was gone.

“Well, well,” he whispered to himself, “so the degenerate slips away, surrounded in mystery. How very poetic, but, what on earth …?”

*

Thomas ambled down to Downton village, turning the conversation with Anna over in his mind. Could this be true, or was it an elaborate hoax, a final stab from Bates to make him look a fool? But then Anna was too honest, even Thomas would admit, to be a party to such a thing … _Oh well, in for a penny, I suppose_ , he thought as he approached the inn. He walked into the Saloon. It was quiet at this hour, six o’clock. There was a bell on the bar counter. No-one was about, so he rang it. Mrs Boston, the landlord’s wife, emerged from some deep recess of the building.

“Mr Barrow, I think, from t’big ‘ouse?”

“Well, yes, but …”

“Here’s your key, and we have a tab all set up for drinks and meals. Make yourself comfortable upstairs, and then come down when you’re ready. My husband’s just put a new barrel on, nice and fresh.”

Thomas glanced at the key: Room 5.

“It’s the big room at the back upstairs, nice and quiet,” added the landlady.

“Thank you kindly,” said Thomas with a real smile.

“You’re very welcome.”

He trudged up the stairs, feeling a little weary, but both overwhelmed and confused. The room was indeed quiet, but also large and comfortably furnished, much more so than his old room at “t’big ‘ouse”, with a big bed, side-table with lamp, a bookcase full of books, a comfortable armchair by the fireplace where a little fire was burning, a wardrobe and chest-of-drawers, and a writing-desk under the window with another chair set before it. There was also a wash-basin in the corner with a mirror over it. He ran some hot water, washed, shaved, put on a clean shirt, then went back to the mirror and combed his hair with great care. _I might be an out-of-work pervert, but something is going on here, so I might at least look good. Fuck Carson and fuck that bitch O’Brien, who I’m sure put Jimmy up to all this, but someone is looking out for me – I wonder who’s really behind it? Lady Mary? But why? Well, the only way to find out is to “make myself visible in the Snug”, as per instructions, and wait and see …_

With a final flick of his comb and even a wry smirk at his own reflection, Thomas left his room, pocketed the key, and proceeded to the said Bar, the smallest in the pub, as a Snug always is. At a quarter-to-seven it was, as he expected, deserted, but Mrs Boston soon bustled out, “A pint from the new barrel, Mr Barrow?” “Yes, please, Ma’am.” “Take a seat by the fire and I’ll bring it over.” _Blimey, this just gets better and better!_

Before the fire there were two large armchairs, distinctly old and distinctly comfortable-looking, with a small, round table set between them. Thomas requisitioned one chair, and sat, staring into the fire and wondering.

*

Two hours later he was halfway down his third pint and had just finished a large portion of lamb stew for his supper. Except for the bustling Mrs Boston, he hadn’t seen a soul, but then he heard the door of the Snug open to admit … the rotund and very distinct figure of Spratt, the Dowager Countess’s butler. Thomas turned at the sound: “Mr Spratt, what brings you here?”

Spratt nodded to him, ordered his own pint of beer, and, clutching it to his ample frontage, approached the other fireside armchair.

“May I …?”

“But of course.”

Spratt took off his hat and gloves and sat down, “Not "what", but rather "who": I think you’ve been expecting me.”

“Well, I’ve been expecting _someone_ , but I didn’t know you were to be my … er _,_ assignation for the evening,” said Thomas with another smirk.

“Well I knew you were to be mine,” answered Spratt with a flutter of his eyelids and a pout. He raised his glass to Thomas, and took a large swig.

_Crikey, now what?_

The portly butler leant over towards Thomas, “It has come to the attention of _certain persons_ that you were to leave Downton without a reference,” he continued in a low voice. “These _persons_ are most displeased at this turn of events, and wish to make amends, insofar as this is possible.”

Thomas gulped some of his own beer, “Goodness, Mr Spratt, you do intrigue me. Am I allowed to know who these _persons_ are?”

“You received the message to take up lodging here from Lady Mary, I believe?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, Her Ladyship was herself but the messenger of another lady … of more … years … “

“You mean … the Dow … ?“

“I mean you should keep your voice down, please, Mr Barrow,“ hissed Spratt.

“Er, quite so, yes … “ Thomas glanced hurriedly round the room, then stared at his beer and took another gulp.

“But why would the D … her Ladyship have the least interest in _my_ fate?” He continued.

Spratt leant over towards Thomas again, raised his eyebrows in a most “confidential” manner, and spoke in a very fast undertone.

“Her Ladyship sees even more than she hears, and knows even more than she says. She remembers you from your first day at Downton, that she told you you’d “have no trouble” – she saw you very well, she saw a certain Duke rather well“ (Thomas blushed) “… just as she saw me, and my cousin Geoffrey who was a footman at Downton decades ago, a very, er, handsome footman at that … Do I make myself clear?”

Thomas couldn’t speak, his mouth was hanging open.

“So you … well, I had _wondered_ … but Her Ladysh … knows … and … and … um … well … er …“

Spratt leant back in his chair, eyelids fluttering wildly. “Her Ladyship is well aware of many things about me, many other folk, the universe and everything, including many things not spoken about, if you get my drift. You hardly need me to tell you that there’s a lot of “it” about in our line of work. She heard about your, ah, predicament, and thinks that Carson, for once, has been a bloody fool. You are not in her employ, so there is nothing she can do directly, other than give her son an ear-wigging about this as soon as possible. You do realise he knows nothing about this nonsense with that flirty boy?”

Thomas sighed deeply. “Why would His Lordship care either?”

“Well, he might or he might not, but it’d be too late by then.”

“It’s too late already”, came the rueful reply.

“As far as Downton is concerned, for the present, yes. However, with discretion, much may be rectified, and I am sure you will understand that for both your sake and that of my employer, utmost discretion is required. Can you be discreet, Mr Barrow?”

“I know when to keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you mean.”

“Under the circumstances, that will do very well. Now, Her Ladyship was very busy on the telephone this afternoon, and asks me to tell you to keep an eye out in the personal columns of the London Times for the next few days. She cannot say when a certain advertisement will appear, but she knows that it will, and that you should answer it. It will be headed “Earnest and Discreet Services required”. There will be a telephone number appended, which you should call, give your name and, when requested, the codeword “Yorkshire terrier”.”

“Blimey, this is beginning to sound like a secret service penny dreadful!”

Spratt cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips, “Dreadful it will not be, I can assure you of that, and will be worth a lot more to you than a mere penny, or even a pound. Talking of which”, he continued, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat and pulling out a fat envelope that jingled a little, “This contains a third-class ticket to London and twenty pounds in coin of the realm. Don’t spend it all at once, and use some of it for a taxi.”

Thomas took the package and was again speechless.

“Now”, resumed Spratt, “this is excellent beer, but I must away. Her Ladyship rises at six o’clock sharp, and expects her early morning tea to be waiting.”

He rose, put his hat and gloves back on, and nodded to Thomas.

“Mr Barrow, I will not say _adieu_ , but rather fare you well: I think you will.”

Thomas also rose, a rueful smile on his lips.

“Mr Spratt, a moment more, if I may. Since you have been the purveyor of kindness and generosity to me, might I ask you to return my thanks to Her Ladyship. She has been my saviour today.”

“Beneath her haughty exterior Her Ladyship is a woman of great heart, a real aristocrat who hates pettiness and small-minded stupidity. The Earl is in for a right earful about this, I can tell you. … She knew Wilde, of course.”

“Good grief …”

“Yes, and not many people know that, nor should they.”

“Mum’s the word.”

“Good. Now remember, stay quietly here, and read the Times every day. Mrs Wigan at the Post Office has been asked to keep an extra copy by for you for the next week. That will be plenty long enough.”

He moved to the door.

“Good night, Mr Barrow, and good luck.”

“Thank you again, thank you.”

Still rather overcome, Thomas sat down once more. He sat for a long time that evening, staring into the fire again, his mind quietly whirling.


	2. News from Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dowager is as good as her word.

The next morning Thomas woke rather early through force of habit, and did a sleepy double-take as to his whereabouts and situation. He groped on the bedside table for his watch: _six minutes to seven …_ “blimey, late already, very late” he muttered. He flopped back into bed and stared at the ceiling. _I could lie here all morning and no-one would notice._ He giggled softly. “ _… but I won’t, instead I shall go and find a bathroom and hope for hot water_.

“Yes, a good long soak will suit me very well,” he murmured, “and no-one to hurry me up – that’ll make a nice change.”

There was a bathroom just across the corridor from his room, and loads of steaming hot water. He took his time, luxuriating in being at nobody’s beck-and-call for the first time in almost fifteen years, but by eight o’clock was presentable enough to wander downstairs in pursuit of breakfast.

“What’ll it be, Mr Barrow,” asked Mrs Boston cheerily, as he entered the Snug.

Thomas was a little nonplussed at the question, not having had any choice in such matters … well, ever, really.

“Er, do you have bacon?”

“We do, best back or streaky?”

“Back, please; and a fried egg, if possible … ooh, and some toast, please.”

“With marmalade, I imagine? My daughter Glenys is just bringing the eggs fresh from the henhouse. Tea?”

“Yes, lots please, and strong. By the way, is the post office open yet? I’d like to buy a paper.”

“Oh, yes, they’ll have been open for papers since seven.”

“I’ll just pop down and get one, and I’ll be right back.”

“Right you are, Mr Barrow.”

It was a fine morning, so sauntering to the post office and back was a pleasure. Mrs Wigan handed over The Times with the crease in her mouth that passed for a smile, but did manage a polite “good morning!”

Taking up his station again in the Snug, Thomas had barely begun reading the front-page headlines (goings on in the moribund Ottoman Empire), when Mrs Boston appeared with a large tray laden with a very hearty breakfast. He set to with a will, eventually consuming four cups of very strong tea as he scanned the rest of the newspaper. The personal columns contained a typical crop of oddities: quack cures for baldness, “discerning gentleman seeks like-minded lady companion”, and several along the lines of “XXZA-5746-B27R by the Serpentine” – _real espionage, I’ll be bound_ , thought Thomas, but nothing about Earnest and Discreet Services. “Never mind,” he murmured with a little sigh, “there’s always tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was a Friday, and the same ritual played out: bacon and eggs, toast, newspaper (still nothing). Thomas read a book till lunchtime (he’d been glad to find Jules Verne’s “The Mysterious Island” in the bookcase in his room), and then went for a long walk. That set him up for a pint, another one of Mrs Boston’s excellent suppers (smoked haddock and fried potatoes), and an early night. One other person ventured briefly into the Snug that evening, not someone he knew, but he thought he heard familiar Abbey voices percolating through from the Saloon: _that’s Alfred and John Bates, that is – I think I’ll make myself scarce … discretion ‘n’ all …_ He slipped upstairs, read another chapter of Verne, and went to bed.

He woke early on Saturday: rain was lashing the bedroom windows. For July, the bedroom was freezing, so he was glad to take another early morning bath. He found himself willing there to be the announcement he sought in that day’s paper. The rain seemed set in, so he waited until after breakfast before scuttling across to the post office. The Times was full of news from Africa (the setting-up of the new state of Kenya) but Thomas’s impatience got the better of his usual interest in the world. “Earnest and Discreet, Discreet and Earnest, Earnest and … “ he muttered, then “ah-hah!” as he saw:

**Earnest and Discreet Services required. Northern connections particularly welcome. Interested parties are requested to call Museum 4286.**

_Museum … Museum … Victoria and Albert or British? I bet it’s the latter, Bloomsbury ‘n’ all that lot. Well, well, well, the old girl’s come up trumps … As to what it all means, Gawd only knows, but nothing ventured, nothing gained … I wonder if Mrs Boston has a phone I could use?_

Thomas rang the bell on the Snug Bar counter, and the afore-mentioned lady emerged once more.

“Mrs Boston, I need to make a private phone-call. Do you have a phone in your office?”

“Indeed I do, Mr Barrow.”

“May I use it, please? I’m happy to pay for the call.”

“Don’t you worry about that, it’s all taken care of. Now, just come round through the Saloon, and the door marked Private at the back. The Office is the second door on the right. You will not be disturbed, I can assure you.”

She smiled sweetly, and bustled off.

Clutching The Times to him like a precious relic, Thomas followed instructions and found himself seated in the swivel-chair behind the desk in the said Office. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the telephone’s receiver and clicked the cradle twice. “What number, please?” came the slightly crackly answer. “Oh, a long-distance call to London please: Museum 4286. Thank you.” “One moment please, sir.”

It was a long moment, accompanied by much clicking, whirring and muffled voices. Thomas’ heart was thumping in his chest, his mind racing. Suddenly all was quiet and clear, the phone rang twice, and then he heard a refined male voice intone: “Museum 4286, E and D Services, may I help you?”

Thomas paused, then said in very subdued tones, “Good morning, my name is Thomas Barrow.”

“Indeed.”

“I saw your announcement in The Times today.”

“Indeed.”

“I was told to ring this number.”

“Indeed.”

Suddenly, Thomas heard Septimus Spratt’s voice in his head “ … the codeword …”

“Oh, yes: Yorkshire Terrier.”

“Thank God for that,” said the voice, sounding much more at ease. “We’ve already had some loony blathering on about discretion being the bitter part of pallor and claiming to be Oscar Wilde’s long-lost twin brother Ernest.” The voice sighed, “I have the advantage of you, since I know who you are and something at least of why we are having this conversation. Three days ago I was rung up by a most distinguished lady of our mutual acquaintance. She says you may be in need of employment. I believe I can help you. There is a train from Downton at 12.14 which, with a couple of changes, will get you to King’s Cross at 18.31. Please take a cab from there to the residence of Lady Rosamund Painswick at 35 Belgrave Square. The staff have been informed of your arrival, and will have prepared a room for you in the servants’ quarters. Please change into your smartest suit and meet me at the Criterion Bar at 8. I shall be seated at the fourth table on the left, and, amongst other things, will be wearing a green carnation. Is that all understood?”

“Yes, but …”

“No, don’t worry about a thing, proper introductions and explanations can wait till this evening. Go and pack your case, and don’t miss that train.”

“Yes, but …”

“Good-bye for now, Mr Thomas Barrow.”

Click went the phone, “brrr” went the line, and that was that.

“Bloody Nora”, whispered Thomas, “this is like being in a novel.”


	3. An Unexpected Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlooked for meeting full of explanations

Thomas hurried back through the Saloon, where Mrs Boston was busily cleaning tables.

“Ah, Mrs Boston, it would seem I must be off very soon. I have a train to catch.”

Right you are, Mr Barrow.”

“I’ll go and pack. Thank you for looking after me so well, and for your delicious cooking.”

“A pleasure. Will you be back soon, or is this good-bye?”

“I think this is good-bye.”

“Good-bye, then, and all the best to you.”

“Thank you … oh, a last favour, if I may? I’ve been reading a book that was in the book-case in my room, and I’m only half-way through. May I borrow it, please? I promise to send it back.”

“Of course! No hurry to return it.” She waved her duster. “Now, Mr Barrow, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting on … “

Thomas glanced at his watch as he went upstairs to his room: just gone half-past ten. No need to hurry, but no excuse for dawdling. He repacked his cases with great care, placing The Times and “The Mysterious Island” on the top of one, and checked the room to see nothing had been left.

He suddenly felt rather overwhelmed, and sat down heavily in the armchair by the fireplace. He stared at the cold grate and sighed.

_What the hell am I getting myself into? Who are these people? I still don’t really get why the Dowager should care tuppence for what might become of me … I wonder what Jimmy’s doing. Lovely Jimmy, lovely, lovely Jimmy. God, I was a fool about that boy!_

Visions of sparkling blue eyes and golden hair flooded his mind, and suddenly he began to weep uncontrollably.

“Ohhh, Ji … J …”, he held his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. “Ohhhh … “

This went on for several minutes, his whole body wracked with sobs. Then he sighed, so very deeply. “I shall never see him again,” he murmured, “never … and that may just be for the best …”

He got up, went to the wash-basin in the corner of the room, and dashed his face with cold water. “God, I look awful … better look better tonight … The Criterion, eh? Biggest queer pick-up joint in London, or so the bloody Duke of bloody Crowborough always said! Hmf!”

He combed his hair, looked at himself in the mirror again, sighed through tense lips, and whispered, “Thomas Barrow, will you always be a fool for love?” He flicked a glance in the mirror. “Probably, yes.”

*

Thomas was still very thoughtful as he walked slowly to the village station. The rain had stopped, and it was a fine morning, the sun warm. He was taking little notice of the life around him, so nearly walked straight into, of all people, Tom Branson.

“Hello, Barrow,” said the Irishman, a smile upon his face.

“Good morning, Mr Branson,” answered Thomas guardedly.

“Don’t look so glum!” Tom glanced at the luggage Thomas was carrying, “Off somewhere?”

“If I may say so, _sir_ , you sound rather pleased! I’m sure you know full well that I have left Downton, and under a cloud.”

“I do now. I had wondered where you were for the last couple of days, but all was revealed at dinner last night: it was quite an event.”

They happened to be standing outside the village tea-shop. “D’yer fancy a coffee?” said Branson.

“I was going to get one at the station buffet, but …”

“Come on, anything’s better than what they concoct there!”

They went in and took a table at the back. Coffees ordered and provided, they resumed their conversation.

“’Quite an event, you said. Why, did Alfred throw soup all over Lady Edith again?”

“Not this time! All proceeded as normal until the ladies were about to “go through”. Then old Lady G tapped her claret glass with a spoon and said in those inimitable cut-crystal tones, “before we do, I have something to say. Carson, please dismiss the other servants: I would like you to stay.”

 _The Dowager with an Irish accent is utterly bizarre_ , thought Thomas.

‘Carson glanced at the Earl, who nodded. Grantham, like all of us was dying to know what this was all about. Carson shooed Alfred and Jimmy out of the room. We were all agog.’

‘Then she started, “Has anyone in this house yet noticed that 'one of our servants is missing', so to speak?” ‘

‘She glared at Carson, “well, man?” ‘

‘ “Your Ladyship, I can explain … ” ‘

‘ “Oh, I am sure you have an explanation all worked out, do you not? Something suitable for ladies’ ears?” ‘

‘ “Well, ma’am, I … “ he paused – he was actually blushing like a beetroot.’

‘ “Oh, come on, Carson, out with it! Where is Thomas Barrow, and why?” ‘

’“He has been dismissed, M’Lady.” – there was a lot of murmuring round the table at that, I can tell you. Visibly perspiring, Carson continued, “As to why, with all due respect, ma’am, I really don’t think …” ‘

‘ “Fiddlesticks! If you won’t tell the assembled company, I will!” ‘

‘The Earl raised his hand.’

‘ “No, don’t interrupt, Robert, I know you have at last found out what's been going on, but it really is the most ridiculous business: Thomas Barrow, the silly fool, was seen kissing Mr James Kent in his sleep, and the latter’s masculinity is so troubled by this “sin” _contra naturam_ that he threatened to go to the police about it if the perpetrator of this heinous crime was not removed forthwith from the premises, and without a reference. Little “Jimmy" Kent blackmailed you Carson, didn’t he?” ‘

‘ “But M’lady, what Barrow did was against the law …” ‘

‘ “Tsk, fiddlesticks and phooey! I doubt even the police of darkest North Yorkshire would think it worth their while!” ‘

‘ “But what of the scandal … the family’s name?” ‘

‘ “Scandal? Hmf! I think a little scandal might do us all good: even I get bored with “suitable” small talk sometimes, and living down gossip and headlines in newspapers is a sign of real class, I always say. Anyway, it’s hardly the rarest thing in the world. All the men of Downton have gone to Eton, for generations, and all of them have been handsome enough to be kissed after lights out by one of the seniors … Robert, stop blushing! Incidentally, you remember Geoffrey the footman who worked here when you were a teenager?” ’

‘ “I think so, vaguely …” answered His Lordship breathily – he was still pink about the gills.’

‘ “He was only here for six months, then Lord Mounteagle came to stay for the shooting, brought his wife, of course. They stayed about ten days, he killing things come rain or shine, she moping about this house like a wet week, then off they went one morning back to London. The next thing we hear is Geoffrey’s gone, Mounteagle and he abscond to a villa in Capri, wife left in Belgravia takes up Spiritualism. Hah!” ‘

‘She chuckled to herself and finished her glass of Sauternes in one gulp. The silence in the room was so thick, you could have cut it with a knife.’

‘Then, “And where is Barrow?” asked the Countess.’

“Not so far away,” replied the Dowager, “though soon he’ll be a lot further off, and good luck to him! No, Mary, don’t say a word, you promised not to!”

“All I was going to add was that Barrow might be a fool, but Jimmy is really rather gorgeous …” ‘

“Oh, Lor’”, said Thomas.

Tom continued, “I glanced at Carson still standing a few feet away. He was so pale I though he would keel over any minute. His mouth was working, but nothing was coming out. It was very funny to watch: a stranded whale in white tie and tails. Even he had never looked more ridiculous.”

The two men looked at one another and burst out laughing.

“And …” prompted Thomas.

‘Well, the Earl said, “Thank you, Carson, that will be all,” then added, “not one word of what has been said here is to be repeated beyond the four walls of this room, ever. Is that understood? Not ONE word. Now, shall we? … I think I need a very large brandy.” ‘

‘The ladies went through. As she passed me, the Dowager put her hand on my arm and murmured, “You see, Tom, I may not be a Fenian firebrand, but I have seen a little of life.” Then, d’you know what, she winked at me, and off she went. The last thing I heard her say was, “Does this establishment rise to green Chartreuse?” ‘

“She paid for me to stay at the Grantham Arms for three days, all my meals, drinks, everything.”

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding!” A pause. “When’s your train?”

“12.14.” Thomas glanced at his pocket watch, “Crikey, that’s in twelve minutes, I’d better get a move on. Thanks for the coffee.”

“My pleasure.” He smiled. “Thomas, may I wish you good luck.”

“You may.”

“And, Thomas,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “I don’t give a damn about who anyone loves, and I’m sure you’re hurting about this … I know what it’s like to lose someone you treasure, for whatever reason. Take care of yourself.”

Thomas bit his lip, nodded, shook Tom’s hand silently, and hurried off.


	4. Southward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A journey, an arrival, and a meeting ... or two

Thomas made it onto the train with two minutes to spare. There was a quickish change at Thirsk, but then a good half-an-hour to wait at York. Thomas ventured to the buffet in that grand old station, consumed what purported to be a cheese sandwich and yet another cup of tea, and then, hoicking his two cases, wandered out on to the main-line platform for King’s Cross. At 13.54 precisely a most wondrous steam-exuding beast of an engine pulling eight carriages pulled into platform 1 from a siding, and Thomas easily found a seat in third class.

The regular _clickety-chug_ , _clickety-click_ of the train wheels soon fell away from his hearing – he had a lot to think about. _Where would this mysterious meeting lead him? He had been at Downton for so long … would anyone really care that he had gone? Would Jimmy hate him for ever?_ He sighed and closed his eyes: blue eyes and golden locks still flickered through his mind, as they did as he stared out of the window at the flitting landscape, and even when he read more Jules Verne or worritted over the Times crossword - but those visions disturbed him less than before, and even when he fell gently asleep he did not dream of Jimmy, but rather of floating on clouds at a tea-table, talking nonsensically over Earl Grey and seed cake to Oscar Wilde and the Dowager, and … a scream of brakes and a loud whistling jolted him awake, and there was King’s Cross in all its considerable glory. It was exactly twenty-nine minutes to seven.

The platform at the terminus streamed with departing passengers, and Thomas hadn’t the faintest idea where the taxi rank was. He asked a porter. “Ooh, there’ll be a queue at the main rank, sir, always is at this time on a Saturday. I’d go across to the little rank by platform 8 – much quicker.”

Thomas thanked the man and wended his way across the concourse. He was third in the queue, behind a fat American businessman in an Astrakhan coat smoking a large cigar, and a positively starved-looking elderly lady with a chihuahua in tow. The latter spent most of the next few minutes sniffing around Thomas’ cases, as if threatening to pee on them: Thomas shooed it away with his foot, smiling at its etiolated owner the while. She didn’t return the compliment, but a cab soon took her whithersoever, and another pulled up for Thomas. “35, Belgrave Square, please,” he said as the driver rolled down the window.

_The last time I was in one of these was with that bugger Crowborough. I wonder whether he still haunts the Criterion of an evening … I bet he does … God, his poor wife: Lady Hermione Blandford, daughter of a steel manufacturer. From Stockport, just like me; common as muck, just like me; absolutely bloody loaded, unlike me, hah! I remember the Earl reading out the Wedding Notice from The Times to Lady Mary at breakfast one morning: her face would have stopped an avalanche. She was bloody lucky to escape him … mind you, so was I, as it turned out … what a fool I was …_

Such were Thomas’ thoughts as the taxi whisked him to Belgravia. There was a bit of a snarl-up at Hyde Park Corner, but the cab deposited him at Lady Rosamund’s house well before seven. He went down the area stairs and rang the bell. A scrap of a lad of about fourteen answered the door.

“Yes.”

“Thomas Barrow, I believe I’m expected.”

“I dunno abou’ tha’, sir, I’d be’ er fetch Missus ’Enderson, the ‘ouse-keeper. Do step inside, sir.”

Thomas did as he was bid, and hadn’t long to wait. The pencil-thin Mrs Henderson appeared forthwith.

“Mr Barrow, from Downton?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are indeed expected. I’ll get Brookes the first footman to show you to your room.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Brookes, twenty-six, wire-haired, face like a ferret, utterly silent, took Thomas up flight after flight of stairs to the very top of the house. At last he spoke, gesturing to a door right at the end of a corridor, marked “Guest”:

“Ther’ y’are, all yours … bathroom’s opposite, area door’s locked at midnight, staff breakfast eight-thirty onwards, OK?” He paused. “Wha’ you ‘ere for, ‘ennyroad?”

“Oh … er, business on behalf of the Dowager Countess … “

“Lor’, not pawning the Crawley emeralds again, is she?” He sniggered.

“Not exactly, and even if she were, do you think I’d tell you?”

“Ooh, all right, keep yer ‘air on! See yer’ in the mornin’!” He sniggered again, and pottered off.

Thomas entered the room, which was really small, with just a bed, night-stand and single wardrobe, plus a mirror on the wall and a distinctly rickety-looking armchair. He put down his cases and glanced at his watch: bang on seven. _One hour, let’s see how good I can look in an hour._ He swiftly unlocked one suitcase and took out a grey lightweight suit. _Hm, it’s got a bit creased in transit, but there’s not much I can do about that now. If I remember rightly, the Criterion has “discreet” lighting … I think I’ve got time for a quick bath._ He felt his chin. … “hm, and a quick shave,” he muttered.

Many years of looking immaculate paid off for Thomas: he ran a bath, shaving the meanwhile. At 7.22 he was out, at 7.26 he was dry, at 7.29 he was tying his blue silk tie, at 7.30 he had his suit on. At 7.32 he whizzed down the service stairs, through the servants’ hall and dining-room – dinner service was just getting underway, and he was so glad not to be involved, for a change. As he walked up the area stairs, he smiled to himself: it was a fine summer Saturday evening in London, and he really hadn’t the faintest idea what was going to happen next.

*****

The streets of the capital were indeed thronged: with beauty, worry, hurry, joy, sadness, and the look on a human face when its possessor is reduced to the mere continuity of existence. Thomas was himself hurrying as much as he could through such a mass of humanity, and attracted a few glances from passing women, and men, the occasional turned head indeed, but, on this evening at least, he was oblivious, at least till waiting to cross the road close to Piccadilly Circus. He suddenly felt a hand on his arm. He glanced at the hand, then at its owner, a portly, middle-aged man immaculately dressed in a blue silk suit. The man stared at him unapologetically, “Do you have the time?” Thomas fished in his waistcoat pocket for his fob-watch, “Seven minutes to eight, sir.” “Is it now? Well, well …” He leant closer to Thomas, “But do you have the time?” Thomas blinked, and then the penny dropped, “Sorry, love, not just now”, he murmured, removing the hand that still lingered on his left arm, “I’m expected …” He nodded towards the Criterion across the way. The portly one’s face fell, and a pout coagulated around his mouth – he reminded Thomas unavoidably of Spratt! “What a pity … “ he breathed, eyeing Thomas up-and-down. Then he turned and waddled away.

“ _Bloody hell! I’ve only been in London for an hour ‘n’ a half, and I’m getting propositioned on Piccadilly Circus!”_

The policeman on point duty at the Circus stopped one stream of vehicles and beckoned to another. All the traffic on Piccadilly halted. Along with dozens of others Thomas hurried forward, and was soon entering the Criterion foyer. _Blimey, eight years since I was last here, on the arm of a duke, and not a thing has changed!_

The lighting was indeed suitably low, the gold-mosaic ceiling a dim glow, and there were few punters – it was much too early for the more “theatrical crowd”, though there were a couple of young queens perched on stools at one end of the bar who gave Thomas a rapid “once over” as he entered, then fell to whispering conspiratorially over their cocktails. Only three restaurant tables were occupied, and Thomas made a bee-line for the fourth on the left-hand side, where he noticed that not one, but two men were sitting, talking quietly: one wore a green carnation in his lapel.

“Good evening gentlemen,” he announced, “I suppose I am the Yorkshire Terrier.”

Both men rose. “Good evening, Mr Thomas Barrow,” said the green carnation, “Charles Devenish, of E and D – very pleased to meet you.” He and Thomas shook hands. “He gestured to the other man, “May I introduce you to Bertie Pelham."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's been lots of preamble, but the "nitty-gritty" is coming very soon!


	5. The Matter in Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> getting down to business

In the accepted Anglo-Saxon manner, Thomas also shook hands with the slightly mousey Bertie Pelham, who smiled so sweetly it was almost painful, but Thomas also saw a warmth in those brown eyes that was most disarming. “Charmed, I’m sure”, said Bertie.

All three sat, and Devenish said, “Champagne, Mr Barrow?”

“Don’t mind if I do, thank you.”

Devenish poured him a large glass, then added, “Let us drink to your future.”

They did, and Thomas, blushing rather, added, “It’s good to feel I might have one, but: why exactly am I here?”

Bertie raised his hand, “Perhaps I could explain what this is all about. You see, I have a cousin, Peter, for whom I act as agent. He is … of a certain persuasion.“

“Peter Pelham has been on our books for years,” murmured Devenish.

“Indeed”, continued Bertie, “but he hasn’t always taken advantage of your, er … connections as well as he might. The point is, he now finds himself in need of rather a special kind of … hm, I suppose some would say ‘servant’, but it wouldn’t really be like that: “personal assistant", “factotum”, “shoulder to cry on” perhaps - it needs to be someone rather special, because my cousin is rather, er … unconventional … yes, very much so … “ He fell silent and stared into his champagne glass.

In a suitably low voice, Thomas said, “So, it’s not just because he’s queer then?”

A little icily, Devenish muttered, “Now, Mr Barrow, there’s no need … “

“No, it’s fine,” said Bertie, “and really there’s every need: the truth is, Thomas (if I may), Peter is something of a wayward genius, a man who lives what many people would think a very strange life. He’s an outsider in many ways, someone who has cut himself off everything he was born to, to become an artist, a painter, and a damned good one at that ... but he’s also moody, “difficult” as the saying goes: he was always a bit like that, even when we were children.” His eyes were far away for an instant, then he continued, “and now he keeps odd hours, sometimes painting for days without stopping, sometimes sleeping ditto … and he drinks too much. One day you’d be dealing with a demi-god, the next … well, almost with a basket case.”

 _Blimey, this is strange! I wonder what "everything he was born to" might mean ..._ thought Thomas.

“Could you cope with that, Mr Barrow?” asked Devenish.

Thomas smiled wryly, “Well, I could try at least – I’ve encountered a lot of humanity at Downton during the last eight years, upstairs and down.” _Nothing could be worse than some of the stuck-up gits and alcoholic lunatics the Crawleys had to dinner, let alone being bossed around by Carson all day long …_

Aloud he added, “By the way, how is it that Mr Peter Pelham isn’t sitting here doing this “job interview” for himself?

“Well, it would be rather a long way for him to come,” answered Bertie with a grin, ”he lives in Tangiers.”

“Ohhhh … “ said Thomas.

“Yes”, added Devenish, “and it’s not “Mr” Pelham, by the way, it’s “His Lordship”: Peter is the Marquess of Hexham.”

“Ahhhh … “ said Thomas.

Another silence fell, then Devenish said, “Well, Mr Barrow, what do you think? “The warm south”, ‘n’ all that … does it appeal?”

Thomas almost didn’t know how to reply, but then blurted out hoarsely, “Of course it bloody appeals!" Devenish's eyebrows shot heavenwards, but Bertie laughed. Thomas put his hand over his mouth, "Sorry, but I can hardly believe this!”

Then he murmured, “‘n’ I love the sun.”

Suddenly “proper”, he addressed Bertie, “I am flattered that you might consider me suitable for this position, sir, which I am delighted to accept. Rest assured, I will make a go of it!”

“Good, that’s settled then”, said Devenish, who looked distinctly relieved. “Shall we order dinner?”

Bertie was positively beaming. “Ooh, ra- _ther_ ,” he said in an almost "schoolboy" manner, “I’m famished, and so must you be, Thomas. By the way,” he added, “I may not be queer, but you are bloody good-looking! Peter will like that.”

Pink to the tips of his ears, Thomas scanned the menu with great attention.

The dinner was excellent – they all ordered the same thing: whitebait, beef Wellington, and lemon sorbet. They drank Lafite 1900, the lucky devils, and it turned into a most convivial evening. Devenish was naturally rather reserved, but Bertie talked and talked about his cousin, whom he more than admired - he really loved his "queer relation", which amazed Thomas: most people would have distanced themselves from such a man as if he had the plague. Indeed, as Bertie explained, nearly all of Peter’s close family, such as it was, had done just that, and the local county "set" had followed suit. His mother, aged and infirm, still lived in the family seat of Brancaster Castle, Northumberland, shunning all society as much as society shunned her. Peter’s much older sister Imogen was married to a Canadian millionaire and lived in Toronto. She had two teenage daughters, but Bertie was his nearest male relation. Yes, there was an entail, so he would inherit one day, perhaps, or his son would, should he ever have one … and so on, and so forth.

At the coffee-and-brandy stage Devenish turned again to business. “Would you please both come to my office at 10 o'clock on Monday morning to deal with the formalities? His Lordship is indeed “unconventional”, but at E and D we always like to do these things properly. I am at 21 Montague Street, Mr Barrow, opposite the East side of the British Museum. We shall of course discuss financial terms then.” He glanced at Bertie, who nodded, “I can assure you, Mr Barrow, you will not be disappointed.”


	6. Cards on the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes a new friend.

Thomas floated back to Belgrave Square on a cloud, partly fuelled by champagne, claret and brandy, but mainly by the realisation that he had a job, somewhere and someone that needed his services, and a future he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams.

He drifted down the service stairs at no. 35, through the door, and into the Servants Hall. It was five minutes past eleven, and the only people about were the ferrety Brookes and a younger footman: they were playing cards and drinking tea.

“Fancy a game, Mr Barrow?” asked Brookes.

“Whocher playin’?”

“Pontoon.”

“How much?”

“Ha’penny a point above sixteen.”

“I think I could manage tha’ ”, said Thomas.

He introduced himself to the younger man, a very pale, cherub-faced nineteen-year-old with freckles and curly ginger hair, Andrew Simmons by name. He was being beaten hollow by Brookes, having only a few coins left in front of him, whereas Brookes had a great heap of coppers.

“Any more tea?” asked Thomas.

“Yeah”, answered Brookes, “I made a big pot – it’s in the kitchen, mugs in the cupboard at the end. Milk’s in the refrigerator, if yer can find it.”

He and Simmons both laughed.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” answered Thomas, “I know all about fridges: we had one installed “oop North” last year. We’re not just out of the Ark up there, yer know. We’ve got elek-trix-ity ‘n’ runnin’ water, all mod cons … and manners,” he added under his breath.

He brought his mug of tea back to the hall, “Now, let a poor Lancashire lad show you posh London geezers how to play.“

The two footmen exchanged glances. The smirking Brookes thought he was in for some easy pickings, but was so wrong. Thomas took off his jacket, put it over the back of his chair, loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and ... lost a hand, just for show, and another, but then won eleven in a row, a five-card at 17, two at 19, five at 20, and three "pontoons" with ace and court card. Young Simmons soon lost the last of his coin, and sat with his arms folded, watching with increasing disbelief as Thomas proceeded to reduce Brookes’ great pile of winnings to three pennies, two ha’pennies and a farthing.

“Now, Mr Brookes, ‘ow about it. I have, let me see, two shillin’, sevenpence, three farthin’s ‘ere. You ‘ave fourpence farthin’. On this next hand, if you’ll bet all yours, I’ll bet all mine.”

“G’arn then,” muttered a very disgruntled Brookes. His rodent-like visage would have curdled milk.

“I am still Banker”, said Thomas.

He dealt two cards to Brookes, two to himself.

Brookes looked at his hand and bet fourpence; then he said “Twist.” It was a seven.

Again, “Twist.” The three of clubs.

Brookes thought for a moment, his eyes anxious – he licked his lips …

“Stick.”

“Right, now for mine”. Thomas turned over his two existing cards: a three and a five – He turned over the next card in the pack – it was a two; and another: the six of hearts.”

“Yer can’t stick on that, it’s only sixteen”, muttered Brookes.

“I am well aware of the rules, thank you very much! Let’s see what Lady Luck brings me now.”

A four. “Five cards and Twenty. My win, I think.”

“Gaar, jammy blighter …,” said Brookes with a sneer, throwing his cards onto the table – he only had eighteen.

Thomas scooped up the pile of coins. “I have ‘ad a lucky evenin',” he continued, sipping his tea. Simmons was smirking quietly to himself as well.

“I can see that!” retorted Brookes “Well, I’m off to bed, some of us ‘ave ter work in the mornin’! You comin’, Andy?”

“ ‘Ang on, I ‘aven’t finished me tea …”

Brookes stomped off in a proper temper.

Thomas looked at the younger man. “He’s a jolly one, isn’ ‘e?”

“Huh, not ‘im, always bloody moanin’!“

“Why’s that, then?”

“Dunno, but it drives me nuts. He’s bin ‘ere six years, and, from wot I ‘ear as well as wot I know, never does nuthin’ ‘xcep’ moan about ev’rythin’?”

“Must get yer down a bit.”

“Yeah, it doesn’ ‘arf.” Simmons glared at his mug, then drank his tea off in one gulp. “Well, I’m off too, see yer at breakfast, I imagine?”

“Oh yes, I’ll be down.”

“Yer bloody good at cards, you are. Did me good to see Brookes beaten like tha'.” He smiled. “ ‘Scuse my askin’, but ‘ow else wuz i’ a lucky evenin’ for yer?”

“Well, I can’t really say just yet, but I can tell yer this: I’ll be seein’ a lot of sunshine soon.”

“Gawd, you are a lucky blighter, ‘n’ no mistake. It’s bin bleedin’ awful ‘ere this year: rain, rain, ‘n’ more bloody rain.”

“Ah, yes, “the season”, as the toffs would ‘ave it … ‘n’ they’re very welcome.” He paused, and looked Simmons square in the face. “D’yer want this lot?” he asked, pointing at the pile of money on the table.

“Oh, I couldn’t take tha', Mr Barrow, you won i' fair 'n' square!”

“Oh, yes, you could! Look, I'll retrieve the sixpence I started with, 'n' you 'ave the rest." He removed four pennies and four halfpennies. "Go on, take i', 'for' I change me mind!" He laughed, "Oh, ‘n’ as fer fair ‘n’ square, you need to watch old grizzle guts Brookes when he’s dealing. He cheats, yer know, bends the cards just enough to see the undersides.”

“ ‘E never?!”

“ ‘E duz, I swear to God! I’ve played a lot of cards in a lot of pubs ‘n’ bars, and in the army – yer notice things.”

“Bloimey,” said Simmons, "I’ve bin ‘ere nearly nine months, ‘n’ we’ve played most eve’nin’s. I dread to think ‘ow much ‘e’s diddled me aht of … wo’ a bugger!” He scooped up the money and secreted it in his trouser pockets. "Thank you, Mr Barrow, tha's very kind of yer!" He smiled.

“Don' mention it, replied Thomas, " but mebbee you’ might take up readin’ a book after supper, hm?”

“Could do … or learn chess. John Bretby plays chess.” He smiled again, but wistfully.

 _‘Ello, ‘ello_ , thought Thomas, who didn't miss much. “Who’s ‘e, then?”

“John’s the gardener.” His eyes glowed. “It’s quite a small garden at the back, a courtyard really, but Lady Rosamund is evuh so proud of i’, ‘n’; ‘e keeps it lahv’ly. ‘E’s go’ a room in the mews out back. It’s nice there, just ‘im, ‘n’ old Burns.”

“Who is, I imagine, Her Ladyship’s chauffeur.”

“Tha’s right, bin ‘ere fer ever, nice old boy, deaf as a post. They ain’ ‘arf lucky in that mews co’age, got ther own kitchen ‘n’ bathroom, like a little ‘ouse on i’s own.”

“Sounds great.”

“Yeah, I’ve been dahn ther’ quite often, ‘ad some beers, didn’ tell ‘grizzle guts’!” He smiled: it really was a nice smile. Then he yawned.

“I’d really be’er be orf nah,” he said. He yawned again, scratching his head ruefully. "Oh Gawd ... Good night, Mr Barrow.”

“Good night, Mr Simmons.” _Curly hair, freckles, and lovely green eyes … ah, well …_


	7. An Unexpected Meeting (or two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas meets some more "society".

As a “downstairs” guest of the house, Thomas’ position was rather odd. He made his way to the servants’ hall in time for breakfast the next day, and saw that a place had been left for him next to Lady Rosamund’s butler, Mead.

“Ah, Mr Barrow, I presume,” said the latter – _no Carsonian harrumphing about being late – blimey!_ “please join us.”

Thomas sat. His seat was opposite the housekeeper, Mrs Henderson, who smiled him a cheery “Good morning”. Mead spoke again, “Perhaps I should introduce us all. I am Mead, her Ladyship’s butler, you have met Mrs Henderson; to her right is Miss Plunkett, Lady Rosamund’s maid (another smiled greeting from a fashionably-coiffed, dark-haired woman of thirty-something), and the two housemaids, Nell and Millie (bobbed heads and muttered “mornin’ “); on your left our two footmen, David Brookes and Andrew Simmons (a grunt from the former, a beaming grin from the latter). Now, if Andrew would kindly pass Mr Barrow some toast, and … “ he felt the teapot standing at his right elbow, “hm, this seems a little tepid. Dolly!” He called. A harassed-looking kitchen maid appeared. “More tea, please,” she hauled the pot away and waddled back into the kitchen. “Millie, are there any eggs left under that cloth?” There were. “Would you hand the basket to Mr Barrow?” She did. “Not country new-laid, I’m sorry to say, as you are used to at Downton, but we do our best … Now tell me, how are things at the Abbey? I gather you are here on business for the Dowager Countess – that is a private matter, of course”, his eyes flicked towards Brookes, “which is not to be discussed further in this house. However, do tell me how old Charlie Carson is, I haven’t seen him for years …”

Thus conversation returned to the breakfast table, and Thomas, skilfully avoiding any mention of his personal situation, filled Mead in on events “oop north”. The buzz of talk was general, but then a bell rang and Miss Plunkett rose hastily to her feet. “Her Ladyship is out for lunch today,” she remarked, as she hurried out. The area door rang, and Andrew went to answer that, then the telephone could be heard from Mead’s office. “Goodness, even our Sundays have little peace,” muttered the butler as he rose to his feet, the rest of the household following. He strode off down the corridor, but returned forthwith, “Mr Barrow, it’s for you.”

*

“Thomas Barrow speaking.”

“Bertie Pelham here. Are you free for lunch?”

“Er, yes, of course, sir.”

“Excellent, 37 Smith Street, just off the King’s Road. Shall we say 12.30 for 1?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure, there will be a couple of other guests, ladies, one of whom you may know.”

“Crikey, will I need to be on my best behaviour, sir?”

“Not really … and do forget the “sir”, you’re practically family, as far as I’m concerned. By the way, it’s about a half-hour walk, if you fancy that: Belgrave Square, Eaton Square, Eaton Gate, on to Sloane Square and keep going in a straight line - OK? See you later.”

_Gawd, I could get to enjoy this “man about town” stuff …_

*

It was a glorious morning, and, being a Sunday, even London was fairly quiet. At exactly noon Thomas emerged from the basement of no 35 and strode off towards Eaton Square. This was smart London, he remembered it well, and fell to ruminating on his past adventures here, mainly centered on “that bugger Crowborough”: _“ … his house is here somewhere, north side of Eaton Square … I wonder if he’s in, not that I intend ringing that door-bell, no ta … he snogged me in the back of his Roller once, right outside that house at two o’clock in the mornin’, chauffeur didn’t turn a hair …_

“Smart” London was certainly out-and-about, an elegant couple leaving their house to enter a taxi-cab, a nanny or several pushing prams, some also trailing small infants, an elderly woman still dressed in the style of Queen Victoria, clutching a large bible (she didn’t look happy), and so forth. Between people-watching and his own thoughts it was not long before Thomas was striding through Sloane Square and on down the Kings Road. Just on the left were the Duke of York’s Barracks, so, unsurprisingly, there were a few soldiers lounging around outside sunning themselves. _Nothing like a man in uniform, they say … I wonder what they “charge” down ‘ere. Tarty little corporal asked me for ‘arf-a-crown in York a cupla years back – cheeky sod, hung like a poodle, ‘e was!_

Such “risqué” thoughts put Thomas in a very good frame of mind as he turned down Smith Street, with its terraces of neat Georgian houses on both sides. No. 39 was a few houses down on the right. Thomas walked up the three steps and rang the brass door-bell.

Bertie Pelham answered the door himself.

“Welcome, Thomas,” he said, shaking his hand and smiling. “Do come in, another of my guests is already here.” He gestured through a door on the left of the hallway. Thomas entered that room, and saw a quite extraordinary woman, aged about forty, sitting on a sofa in the window embrasure. If a person’s posture could be said to drawl, hers did: everything about her was long and languid, from her piled up, yet drooping jet-black hair and the fingers of her right hand that clutched a long cigarette-holder (the room reeked of Balkan Sobranies) to the toes of her feet that peeked, nails varnished scarlet, from patent leather black sandals. She was dressed from head to foot in red, and did not sit on that sofa – she was draped all over it like a scarlet panther.

“Thomas”, said Bertie, “I’d like you to meet Letitia – Thomas Barrow, Letitia Fortescue.”

Miss Fortescue was already examining Thomas from head to foot, as if wondering whether he might be good to eat. She held out her equally languid left hand, and, quick as a flash, he bent over it, took it in his right hand, and kissed the air half-an-inch above it. Before he had a chance to let go, she grasped his hand with surprising strength, and murmured in a very contralto voice, “Verrrry good, where did you learn that? Not in Yorkshire, suuurely?”

Thomas freed his hand and stepped back, standing almost to attention, “Well, yes, ma’am, as it happens … in the Gaumont in Thirsk, actually, watching Valentino.”

Bertie, who had been watching this little bit of theatre, suddenly roared with laughter.

“You see, Lettie, I said he was the right one!”

“And you were right, absoluuutely right.” She rose to her feet, and grabbed Thomas by the hand again. “Now come closer to the window, and let me look at you properly … yes … lovely … quite lovely … those eyes … hmmm … “ _Careful, ma’am, I don’t come cheap …_

“Lettie, do stop pawing Thomas like he’s a prize cockatoo!"

“He’s a prize cock o’ something, I’ll be bound!” came the murmured reply. _Blimey!_

“Honestly, Let! Do excuse my batty friend, Thomas, she’s actually quite civilised.”

Lettie stuck out her tongue at Bertie, and giggled.

Bertie went over to a drinks-trolley on the other side of the room. “Thomas, what can I get you?”

“G’n’T, very strong”, came the gasped reply. _Wow, this is weird!_

“Nahooowwww, let us sit and talk – tell me everything about yourself, Thomas, eeeehv’rything. Don’t be shy, I don’t bite beautiful … men. Bertie, more, whisky, there’s a dear.” _OK, lady, you asked for it …_

Fortified by two gulps of mercifully lethal gin-and-tonic, Thomas did begin to talk. He was hesitant at first, but then, noticing no comment, no shocked looks, he felt something like a dam burst inside him, and everything began to pour out in a torrent. No-one had even asked him about his life before, but this woman, whom he did not know from Adam, somehow gave him licence to say all that he needed to say. It just felt right to talk about himself and his narrative met not a hint of disapproval, so it all flooded out: his childhood, the clocks, his family, being thrown out of his home “’cos I were diff’rent”, being a Downton hall-boy at fifteen, then a footman, the war, the wound, the Black Market, valet to the Earl, and … “

Letitia was very quiet, only listened, her large dark eyes fixed on him unblinkingly. Bertie sat still as a statue, watching them both. When Thomas spoke about leaving home, Lettie patted his arm and sighed. When he fell silent, not wanting to talk about the how-and-why of his leaving Downton, she looked into his eyes very intently and said, “It was an affair of the heart, wasn’t it?” Thomas stared at his glass and nodded. “Tell me, dear boy, was he very beautiful?” Another nod.

She took another drag of her cigarette. “They’re never worth it … “

Thomas bit his lips, and then sighed. “Sorry how that just poured out of me. I shouldn’t burden you with it all, I barely know you … but ... you’re not judging me, are you?”

“Good God, no, why judge someone who has lived through such things? I might as well judge myself … “

“I hope you don’t think ill of me, sir … Bertie … “

“If he does, I’ll never speak to him again,” muttered Lettie savagely.

Very gently Bertie said, “Don’t worry, Thomas, I hope you know you have nothing to fear on that score.”

Thomas could only nod again.

There was a loud and long ring at the door-bell. Bertie glanced at his watch.

“Aha, just in time. Now, Thomas … !”

 _Who can this be? _He took another large gulp of gin.

Muffled greetings could be heard from the front door and hallway, and, as the ormolu clock on the mantle began to strike one, in walked … Lady Rosamund Painswick.

Thomas jumped to his feet, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. Rosamund greeted Miss Fortescue with a resounding kiss on both cheeks, and they both smiled warmly.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Lettie”, said her Ladyship. “I had to miss your last soirée, and I want to hear all about it.”

She turned to Thomas, who was blushing like a teenager. “M’lady”, he mumbled.

She held up the forefinger of her right hand in gentle admonition, “No, Thomas, if I may, not “M’lady”, not here, not in town. Up “you know where” (she jerked her head towards the ceiling) there may be “forms”, but not here, not with my friends, and,” she glanced at her host, “any friend of Bertie is a friend of mine. I know the last time I saw your face may have been across a plate of sliced topside or a bucket of Béarnaise sauce, but could you please put all that behind you, however odd a request that may seem? I am Rosamund here … just don’t call me “Ros”, that I do hate!” She laughed and put out her hand.

Thomas shook it shyly. “Yes, M’l … Rosamund.” A smile came to his face.

“Excellent! Now Bertie, a very large and very dry martini, if you’d be so kind.”

Lady Rosamund was very full of things to talk about, quizzing Lettie about her soirée at great length. Thomas and Bertie let the ladies talk, but there came a moment when Rosamund turned to the former and said,

“I know everything about what happened at Downton.” Thomas blushed again. “No, don’t you worry: Mother was right, Carson was a bloody fool, and so, quite frankly, was Robert. He should have told Master Kent, pretty boy though he certainly is, where to stick his masculinity. You might be glad to know that Robert’s valet, John Bates, now refers to little Jimmy as “a big girl’s blouse” at every opportunity.”

Thomas stared into his glass again. “Oh”, was all he could manage, but then he laughed, “that is a thought … Jimmy … in a blouse … “ he wheezed, “ … and they thought I was … pardon my French … the queer one.”

“Take it from me, dear boy,” interjected Lettie, “a lot of ostensibly heterosexual men love the thought of getting into their wives’ … er … things … “

“I am having a vision of Robert dressed in one of Cora’s night-gowns,” spluttered Rosamund. “He does not have the hips for it … “ she giggled into her martini.

“Right, children,” said Bertie, “shall we eat?”

The little drawing-room had folding doors on its back wall, which he opened, revealing a charming dining-room, with a square central Georgian mahogany table, laid with the very best silver, crystal and linen.

“Now, my adorable cook-housekeeper, Mrs Blanding, has done a lovely buffet lunch for us, but she has the day off to visit her sister in Putney, and I only have two hands with which to bring it up from the fridge in the kitchen … “

On auto-pilot, Thomas was about to offer, but Rosamund forestalled him, “No Thomas, you stay here and chat to Lettie. I may be an Earl’s daughter and an Earl's sister, but I’m not completely helpless.”

 _Don’t let me stop you_.

She and Bertie zoomed off, and Lettie said, “While they’re faffing around downstairs, get yourself another gin – go on, Bertie is the last person to stand on ceremony.”

Thomas was not averse to complying, and, when he sat back down at the table, Lettie continued, “You have bared your soul to me, so why don’t I tell you who the hell I am, hmmm? Well, Bertie acts for Peter in all matters financial and domestic, but I am the artistic agent, if you like. I own a teentsy gallery just off Sloane Square, and I sell Peter’s paintings for him – when I can get any out of him, that is. I don’t know what Bertie’s told you about the “situation” in Tangiers, but I can tell you that Peter does paint a lot, when the fit is upon him, but has been bloody useless at getting his stuff into galleries. That is something I'd like you to sort out when you go out there. I want to mount a proper one-man show for him, so we can let London see what he’s capable of … Did you notice that?” She waved at a large, sun-blazed canvas over the fireplace. “That’s one of Peter’s, of course. Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? You can almost feel the baking heat … and that sky … we don’t get those skies in England, so blue … “

Thomas gazed at the picture. “I’ve only ever seen that blue in somebody’s eyes,“ he murmured. He drank a lot of gin rather quickly.

“Ah,” breathed Lettie.

There was a sudden rustling from the hallway and a clatter of crockery. Rosamund entered in an apron(!), clutching a large soup-tureen, and Bertie followed after, bearing a large plate of lobster salad. Thomas couldn’t help wincing slightly when they clanked it all down on the table – Bertie noticed, “Sorry, we’re not very good at this, are we? Do you give lessons?”

The soup was Vichyssoise. There was a lot of wine, Montrachet of course, and a lot of good conversation. Rosamund informed Thomas that Lettie’s “teentsy” gallery was just about the best for new art in the whole of London, the walls crammed with Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell and Wyndham Lewis and Laura Knight and – well, anybody who was anybody, really. Thomas had always tried to “keep up” with matters cultural by reading The Times and The Illustrated London News while he was at Downton, but felt a bit out of his depth as Rosamund spouted names completely new to him. He still couldn’t quite comprehend how and why a woman of her class would talk to him as if he were a normal human being rather than a piece of vaguely noticeable furniture, but he was certainly enjoying the experience.

Thus the lunch wended its very civilised way. After the lobster, a pear tart appeared as if by magic, followed by cheese, with very good port, and then Bertie disappeared again to make coffee. Thomas was more than a little sloshed, but was holding everything together pretty well. Lettie was considerably further gone, but nobody seemed to notice, let alone care. Before any of them knew where they were, the clock on the mantle struck four.

“Heavens”, squeaked Rosamund, “I have to be going. Thomas, I must apologise for not having brought you here, and likewise for not taking you back, but Mead would have had a seizure and the staff would talk of nothing else for weeks – do forgive me! AND, understand that you are welcome to stay for as long as sorting everything out with your new position takes. I’m sure there will be a lot to do. I trust “downstairs” are looking after you.”

“They are most kind and welcoming, thank you, M’l … Rosamund.”

“Good, I am very glad to hear it. Mead is a very decent sort.”

“Indeed he is … one thing, though: your first footman cheats at cards.”

“Does he, indeed, blast him!”

“Don’t worry, I beat him hollow last night, and Andrew won’t fall for his tricks again.”

“Ah, now he is a nice lad: a good face does help, doesn’t it?” She stared at Thomas quizzically. He stared right back. “It most certainly does.”

After Rosamund had left, Lettie also made her farewells, “I can drop you at Belgrave Square if you like,” she said to Thomas. “Just hold me upright on the Kings Road for long enough to hail a taxi.”

“I’ll see you at ten tomorrow”, said Bertie to Thomas as his two guests ambled off, Letitia clutching onto our Mr Barrow for dear life. About ten minutes after Lady R entered through the front door of 35 Belgrave Square, Thomas again sailed down the area stairs, collected a cup of tea from Dolly in the kitchen, and retired to his room in the attic. He was seen later scrounging a cheese sandwich off cook at about nine p.m., read yet another chapter of Jules Verne, and slept like the dead.


	8. On the Dotted Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas signs his life away.

After another pleasant breakfast, during which he learned that Miss Plunkett was from Lancashire and that Andrew Norris was reading Dickens of an evening, Thomas walked from Belgrave Square to Hyde Park Corner and took a 19 bus to Museum Street. There was a lot of traffic at nine o’clock on a Monday morning, but Thomas was lucky to get a seat upstairs on the double-decker bus, and right at the front: he felt rather like a little boy on a day out. The bus did rather crawl up Charing Cross Road, and he worried he might be late, but at 9.52 he was off the bus, and made it to 21 Montague Street in six minutes. He rang the bell marked “E & D Services”, and a few moments later an absolute slip of a young man opened the door, so slender he looked like a human bookmark. “Mithter Barrow, I presume,” he lisped affectedly (he was no great shakes at the English “r” either). “Please follow me.” He tripped up the stairs, and took Thomas through a door on the left of the first-floor landing. This was an ante-room, where the bookmark had a desk and a typewriter. “Pleathe take a theat, I’ll tell Mr Devenith you are here.” Thomas did as he was bade, and the bookmark tapped on an inner door. “Come!” “Mr Barrow is here, sir.” "Send him through, please, Simkins.”

“Mr Devenith will thee you now.”

Thomas walked through and entered a large room every bit as immaculate as Charles Devenish himself. From the white freesias in a bowl on a corner of the huge desk to the Piranesi engraving over the fireplace, everything said “classy”.

“Come in, Thomas, it is good to see you again.” They shook hands, and Devenish glanced at his watch, “I’m sure Bertie will be here in a minute. As I said when we met on Saturday evening, I do like to have things down on paper, for the benefit of all concerned. The Hexham estate is very well run, thank God, but some of my clients are a bit hopeless with money, and I do have my commission to think about.” He smiled wryly and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Do sit down.”

A bell rang in the outer office. “That will be our other principal.”

A minute later Bertie came in. “Good morning, Charles, Thomas.” He cocked an eyebrow at the latter. “Have you recovered?” “More or less, I think.” “Sorry about Lettie, she can be a bit much!” “Not at all, I thought she was great fun … and a good listener.” Thomas looked solemn for a moment.

“If I may, gentlemen,” said Charles, “could we get down to business, please?” He indicated several documents on his desk. He handed one to Thomas. “Please read this, and feel free to ask any questions.”

It was headed “Contract of Employment”, and, though only two pages long, was crammed with “legalese”. Thomas read it very carefully, and with rising disbelief:

**On signature of this contract, Mr Thomas Barrow, formerly of Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, will enter into the employ of and act as Personal Assistant to Peter, Marquess of Hexham, at his residence, Le Vieux Palais, Tangiers, Kingdom of Morocco, at a salary of seventy-five pounds quarterly; fifty pounds of this to be deposited in the Banco Galliano, Gibraltar, in an account to be opened in the name of the said Thomas Barrow, Esq, the remainder to be paid each Quarter Day in cash at the afore-mentioned address. In addition, full board and lodging and all other domestic necessities shall be provided by the employer. This contract may be terminated by either principal at a months’ notice in writing.**

Thomas had earned forty pounds a year as the Earl of Grantham’s valet.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece.

Bertie really seemed to be holding his breath, but at last murmured, “Is it satisfactory, Thomas?”

“No, it isn’t … it’s _unbelievable_! What’ll I do with all that money?”

“Save it up for a rainy day, perhaps,” suggested Peter. He glanced at Bertie. “I told you the Hexham estate was well-run,” he said, with a smile.

“You will need to be something of a factotum, as I mentioned previously,” added Bertie. “I thought,” he counted on his fingers, “Secretary, valet, organiser, support mechanism, so why not four salaries? I call it good value!”

 _I’m certainly not complaining._ “I said it before: I’ll not let you down.”

Bertie laid a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I know.”

He turned to Devenish, “Now, where do I sign?”

“At the foot of this copy, which is yours to retain - where it says “per pro Peter Pelham”; then the same on Thomas' copy, and on this one, which I keep for my files.”

Bertie signed, Thomas likewise, still rather shell-shocked. They both pocketed their copies, shook hands with Charles Devenish, and left his office. They passed Simkins, who was clacking away at his typewriter, and saw themselves out. The sun was shining, and it was 10.45.

“Now, Thomas, we’re not done yet. I need you for quite a bit longer today, but first I need coffee. Does that sound like a good idea?”

“Not ‘alf”, breathed Thomas, who then stopped in his tracks. “I still can’t believe this …”

“I think you’d better start!” came the good-natured reply. “Now, there’s a really decent coffee-bar on Bury Place, come on!”

Two strong espresso macchiatos later (you don’t get those in Yorkshire! thought Thomas) Bertie had made several things clear: Peter inherited his title while still at school (Eton, naturally, which he loathed); he’d drifted into Oxford (Christ Church, naturally, where he did not a stroke of work), had fallen in love with a German count who was reading Greats – that had all ended in tears, and Peter had been sent down for peeing into Mercury at the end of a Summer Ball. He’d gone to the Slade School of Art and hated that too. His Mamma had badgered him to take his responsibilities around Brancaster seriously, they’d had a terrible row, and he’d left the country: went to Paris first, found someone to study painting with, then went to Nice, had another affair with the son of a French hotelier, that blew up horribly, and he'd never come home. He’d turned 21 by then, so had full control of his money, but absolutely couldn’t bear the thought of returning to England. He’d written to Bertie in despair, asking him to try and sort everything out, pacify Mamma, let him stay abroad, lead the life he wanted to lead, and so on. That was eight years ago.

“God knows how I managed it, but I did. The Dowager Marchioness is certainly well aware of her son’s proclivities, and doesn’t approve, but what can she do? Most of Brancaster is shut up, she lives in one wing, almost like Miss Havisham, minus the cobwebs. Hardly any visitors, gets taken out for a drive in her Rolls-Royce twice a week, and is, frankly, quietly losing her marbles.”

“No surprise there”, commented Thomas.

“Indeed not. Meanwhile, Peter found this amazing old place in Tangiers, half vizier’s palace, half French château, just on the edge of the souk in the oldest part of the city. I’ve been there, it’s really wacky, he has a couple of Arab servants keeping the place clean and cooking his meals, and he’s had English “helpers” before, but none of them have lasted. They either hate the climate, or the food, or the natives, or Peter’s lifestyle, or find something else to moan about. He needs someone to organise him, keep him working, not let him drink so very much … he smokes, too, and not just tobacco … “

“Ah … I presume you mean hashish?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve tried it.”

“Really? I didn’t dare.”

“Don’t blame you. Bloody ‘orrible stuff – there are some places, not a million miles from where we’re sitting, that’ll supply you … at a price. I went to one once, with a certain aristocrat.”

That did raise one of Bertie’s eyebrows.

“I was very young and very stupid”, continued Thomas. “Did a lot of things with him I wouldn’t do again.”

“I won’t pry.”

“Nothing to pry about, really: water under the bridge, a long time ago.” He paused. “Now, you said you needed me for other things today. What’s next?”

“Clothes.”

“Clothes?”

“Yes. Tangiers is hot, Mediterranean, you’ll need something lighter than English wool, or you’ll fry. Therefore we’re going for a fitting at my tailors in Jermyn Street: two linen suits, one cream, one blue, a white dinner-jacket and dinner trousers, plus accessories, and a navy blazer. This is part of kitting you out for the job, so comes out of Hexham funds, OK?”

“Who am I to object”, answered Thomas with a grin.

That took the rest of the morning, with a request for another fitting on Thursday, then there was a call at Tricker’s shoe-shop for some lightweight loafers, and a quick lunch at Simpson’s. Thomas was feeling quite overwhelmed by the end of all that, so Bertie told him to go back to Belgrave Square and take it easy: “I need to talk to the Foreign Office and get your passport organised. By the way, how’s your French?"

“I did three years of it at Stockport Grammar, but it’s as rusty as hell.”

“Righto, you need to get working on it: no-one will expect you to learn Arabic, for a while at least, but French is the language you’ll need every day, much more than English.”

That necessitated a visit to Hatchards book-shop on Piccadilly, whence Thomas emerged clutching “Longmans' French Course”, just published, and “Arabic Made Easy”, rather too slim a volume, in which he had little faith, but at least it showed willing, plus three notebooks for writing it all down. Bertie also explained that, if he could get the passport organised and if the tailors were up to snuff, there would be nothing to prevent Thomas leaving within about ten days, maybe even a week.

“How about going by boat?” he suggested.

“Blimey, I haven’t been on the sea since coming back from the trenches!”

“Well, this would be a lot more pleasant, I can assure you. It’s not the quickest way, that would be train via Paris and through Spain. I did that, it was bloody awful: the Spanish trains were ghastly … no, a nice gentle sea voyage’ll be much better, and it'll give you more time to "améliorer ton français". We can go to Thomas Cook on Ludgate Circus tomorrow, and get it all fixed up. Now, here’s Piccadilly Circus tube, you could take that “home” … or walk back through Green Park.”

“That sounds good … and thank you for everything.”

“Not at all! Oh, by the way, I had a call from Lettie at breakfast time this morning. She’s got another one of her soirées at her gallery this Friday, and wants to invite you – do you fancy it? She has the strangest people go … drinks from 7, canapés from 8, talk till late, and then sometimes a night club. What do you say?“

“How about ‘yes, please’?”

“Brilliant, I’ll let her know. You really made an impression, you know? She went on for ages about your ‘mysterious eyes, grey as the sea’ – that’s why I was a bit late at Montague Street …”

“Lor’! “

“She may seem all gush, but she has a heart of gold.”

“I noticed.”

“Quite. I’ll meet you tomorrow at Thomas Cook, Ludgate Circus at, what, shall we say 11? Now I need to talk to my contacts at the Foreign Office and get your passport organised.”

He hailed a cab, and with a wave he was gone.

_What a thoroughly decent bloke._

Thomas sauntered slowly back to Knightsbridge via St James’ Park. He sat on a park bench for a while, his mind full of racing thoughts. A pin-striped businessman walked past, and definitely gave him the eye, but Thomas barely noticed.

He was back in Belgrave Square in time for a very welcome cup of tea, then did a little revision of the French Imperfect till supper-time, after which he played chess with Andrew Simmons (one win, one draw). _What a nice lad!_ He was in bed by half-past ten, and again slept the sleep of the just.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mercury" is the name given to the fountain in the front quadrangle of Christ Church, Oxford.  
> Mr Simkins' speech impediment: this is, of course, not meant to offend anyone, it is descriptive only.  
> "Reading Greats" is "Oxford speak" for studying Latin and Greek Literature, and Ancient Philosophy.


	9. Thomas Gives Some Advice

During the next few days, the whirlwind of preparations continued. Thomas Cook were able to book Thomas onto an Atlantic Coastal Cruise, departing from Southampton the following Monday (stopping at le Havre, la Rochelle, Biarritz, Santander, Corunna, Oporto, Lisbon, Faro and Gibraltar: and they fixed the “hop” to Tangiers as well). Thursday: the second fitting in Jermyn Street went swimmingly, and all would be ready by Saturday afternoon, “a special favour, Mr Pelham”. On Friday morning, Thomas got another breakfast-time call from Bertie, reminding him about the soirée that evening:

“ … best bib-and-tucker, eat a large lunch and cadge some cake at tea-time, if you can – Lettie's canapés are very yummy, but so small you can feel them floating around on the sea of booze you’ve already taken on board (her cocktails are evil!) – all a bit unsettling for the unaccustomed gut. The address is The Avanti Gallery, 5 Ellis Street. It’s a couple of minutes’ walk north of Sloane Square tube – don’t be early!”

“Will you be there?”

“Oh yes, ra- _ther_ , and so will Rosamund: Lettie’s got a Duncan Grant she wants to show her. He’ll probably turn up as well … you can never know with Lettie’s “dos” … “… and she’s plotting something for you for later in the evening. She wouldn’t tell me what, but you might remember I mentioned a night-club … “

“ … better not get too sloshed, then … “

“I bet she’s thought of a particular “dive”, specially for you, so be ready for anything!”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“See you about 7.15, ta-ra for now.”

 _Click_ went the phone.

_How did I ever have the time to do a proper job?_

*****

By now, Thomas was well into Chapter 8 of Longmans’ French Course, and was tussling with the Preterite. From his attic room, little of the noise of London could be heard, nor of the house working away beneath him. At about 11, he took a break, and wandered down to the kitchen, where one of his sweetest smiles produced a large mug of coffee from Dolly. She was slaving away shelling peas and making julienne carrots: Lady R had a guest for lunch, so her cook, Mrs Manners, suitably large in figure, but less irascible than Mrs Patmore of old, was preparing a chilled cucumber soup, followed by salmon en croûte … and was getting a little flustered.

“Dolly, aren’t you done with those vegetables yet, child?”

“Nearly, Mrs M.”

“Well get a move on, girl, and then check the meringues. I don’t want them to burn!”

“Yes, Mrs M,” came the weary reply, which evinced only incomprehensible muttering from her exasperated superior.

Familiar with such scenes, Thomas beat a tactical retreat to the Servants’ Hall. The only person present was Miss Plunkett, deftly stitching sequins into the hem of one of Lady Rosamund’s dresses: a lovely thing of blue organza. Thomas nodded a greeting. “I’ll not disturb you,” he said, scooping up The Times from the table. _Who might I disturb, I wonder? _He wandered off, back down the corridor past the kitchen and out into the garden.

It was indeed the most beautiful space, mainly paved with York Stone flags, and with a large and ornate metal gazebo in the centre, covered in pink and white climbing roses. There were irregular flower-beds on two sides with peonies in all their glory, campanulas and delphiniums coming into flower, and, at the far end, a wooden gate onto the mews and a high, ivy-clad stone wall in front of which was a large, white-painted wooden seat. No-one was about, though there was a watering-can on the flagstones, lying on its side, and a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel, dropped seemingly in haste …

_Interesting, those must be Mr Bretby’s, I suppose. I wonder where he’s got to?_

Thomas sat on the wooden bench, put down his coffee, and started to read the newspaper. The sun was warm. He was just getting into “Court and Social” when he heard muttering voices from the other side of the gate. “Thank God old Burns had to go out!” “Yeah, 'e often ‘as to go the garage on a Friday, gettin’ petrol.” “Good, then I can see yer again.” “If yer want.” “You bet I bloody do!” Then whispering … and the definite sound of a kiss. “Go on, you first, I’ll wait a bit …”“Good idea … luv yer … “ “you too … ” _whisper, whisper_ , kiss. Then the gate clicked and through it came Andrew Simmons, looking a little flushed.

“That were risky, young Andrew”, said Thomas quietly, “you never know who might be list’nin’.“

Simmons, unsurprisingly, looked ready to faint. “Oh, Gawd, Mr Barrow, did you ‘ear all tha’? … You won’t … tell on us, will yer?“

“Course I won’t, you ninny!” He looked Andrew straight in the face. “Been there meself … exactly there, if you get my meanin’.”

“Oh … so you’re …?”

“Yeah,” Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper, “queer as several coots, in fact – as an old colleague reminded me recently, there’s a lot of “it” about in our line of work, but just be more careful, will yer? Police, prison, d’yer want tha'?”

“Neither of us does, thank ‘ee,” said another voice. John Bretby had crept quietly in through the gate, and was standing just behind his lover, trying to look brave.

Thomas looked at them both, and, keeping his voice down, continued, “Well, then, perhaps you should be a little more circumspect in future, as one might say. It could have been some moralising git sittin’ ‘ere, couldn’t it? One of Lady Rosamund’s toff friends, a justice of the peace, maybe? I happen to know, don’t ask me how, that your employer doesn’t give two hoots, but you don’t need me to tell you that the law and most of the world hate and despise people like us, just for existing.”

He paused, and looked at the two of them. “You’re quite a pair, though, aren’t you, handsome buggers both.” He smiled, and so did they. “Now, I can sit here and read the paper till lunch-time, but I’m sure you both have work to do … and Andrew, consider it your punishment that I can also have the pleasure of observing Mr Bretby’s no doubt pert arse as he bends over the delphiniums, while you have silver to polish or something … now, goooaarn, off with yer!”

He shooed them both away. None of them had noticed a figure at one of the upstairs windows. Lady Rosamund herself: what she thought of that little scene we shall never know, though she was smiling too.

*****

Upstairs might have been gorging on salmon en wotsit, but that didn’t stop Mrs Manners whipping up a first-rate fish-pie for the staff’s lunch. Everyone had seconds, and Andrew and Thomas even begged for thirds, “All that silver polishing has made me really hungry,” said the former. “What’s your excuse?” ventured Miss Plunkett to Thomas. “Oh, I’m just greedy!” he replied, laughing.

When “afters” arrived, a very fine Spotted Dick and custard, Miss Plunkett asked another question, “I know I shouldn’t,” continued the lady’s-maid with a glance to Mead, “but is your, er, business on the Dowager Countess’s behalf proceeding successfully?”

“Very, thank you,” came the answer, “it’s complicated and convoluted, which is why I’m still here, but yes, thank you.”

“Her Ladyship informed me that you may be here for a few days yet,” added Mrs Henderson.

“I hope to leave on Monday.”

“Yer bin aht ‘n’ abaht a lot, that I 'ave noticed”, muttered the ever-grumpy Brookes.

“Mr Barrow no doubt has his own friends in London, Mr Brookes,” retorted the housekeeper, “some of us do, you know.”

The area door rang. “David, get that, would you?” said Mead.

“That’s Andrew’s job!”

“Yes, but he’s still eating, and you’ve finished. You sound as though you’ve got indigestion already, and the exercise won’t hurt you.” Mead flapped his hand at the recalcitrant footman as he stomped off, and muttered to Mrs Henderson, “After six years, I’ve had quite enough of that from him. Incorrigible!” he shook his head. “I think I’m too soft”, he said aloud. “What would Charlie Carson do, Mr Barrow?”

“Give him a right earful in his office. I had a few, when I was younger!”

“Hmf, I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. I suppose I must try again.”

Brookes returned bearing a large box, resplendently labelled “Chanel”.

“Delivery for ‘er Ladyship,” he snapped.

Miss Plunkett rushed to relieve him of it. “I’ll take that, thank you. Madame will be so relieved, she has a special event this evening.” Her glance flicked towards Thomas, just for a moment, then she sped off.

_A-hah, so Lady R gossips to her lady’s-maid. Whatever next?_

The large lunch left Thomas feeling very drowsy. He just about made it to the top floor. _Sod the past historic, I need a nap_.

*****

Thomas dozed for rather longer than a “nap”, but then the bang of a door outside in the corridor woke him up with a start. _What on Earth?_ He got out of bed, rubbed his eyes and yawned. He could hear distant muttering, and then what sounded distinctly like a sob. Clad only in his under-shirt and trousers, he went to investigate. The noise was coming from behind the door marked “A. Simmons”. He knocked very gently; no response. He knocked a little louder. “Who’s tha’?” “It’s me, Thomas Barrow.” A fumble at the door, and Andrew’s bleary face appeared.

“Whassup?” asked Thomas.

“It’s bloody Brookes, ‘e can be such a sod!”

“Can ‘e now, you do surprise me!,” said Thomas with a sigh.

“Whocher mean?”

“Well, he’s a miserable git, you ain’t, he’s got a face like a weasel’s arse, and you … ain’t.” Thomas smiled, “and you’ve only bin ‘ere a few months, but ‘e’ll’ve noticed the others like you, ‘n’ they don’t like ‘im. Can’t say as I blame ‘em,” he added with another smile. “You ‘ave to tough it out a bit, though, not rise to ‘im. What was it abou’, anyway?”

“We wuz ‘avin’ tea ‘n’ cake in the Servants ‘All, ‘n’ ‘e’s tryin’ to chat up the maid, Millie, again. ‘E’s bin tryin’ it on wiv ‘er fer ages. She ain’t int’rested, but it don’t stop ‘im. I started tellin’ ‘im ter leave orf, bu’ ‘e tells me ter shu’ i’, wo’ business is i’ o’ moin, I could learn a few things from ‘im, “unless she’s not your type, Mr Pretty Boy!” I wuz gonna clock ‘im one, I tell yer, but then old Mead comes in and tears a strip off all three of us.” He wiped at his eyes, “’Snot bloody fair, that’s wo’!”

“Life isn’t always,” said Thomas, putting a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and giving it a squeeze. “Now, wash your face, tidy yourself up, and go back downstairs. Ignore Brookes as much as you can, do your work alongside him, be scrupulously polite to the jerk, but don’t let him get to you.” He paused. “Your mention of tea ‘n’ cake ‘as reminded me that I didn’t get any.” He glanced at his watch, “Hm, and at five-and-twenty to six, it’s probably a bit late for tha’. I’m goin’ out, you see.”

“Anywhere nice?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Might be. If you’re a good boy, I’ll tell you all about it in the mornin’.”

“Is tha’ a threat or a promise.”

“Could be both, but I can’t stand ‘ere yackin’ all ev’nin’. I ’ave some prinkin’ ‘n’ polishin’ to do.” He pointed to himself and raised both eyebrows.

Andrew looked him up and down. “I think you look great just as you are.”

“Cheeky, but absolutely right!” They both laughed, and went their separate ways.

Thomas had another bath, a long, slow one this time, shaved very carefully, changed all his clothes, dabbed on some cologne, and combed his hair with particular care. _Shall I be mingling with the “Beau Monde” or the “Demi-monde”? Both probably, and as soon as I open me gob they’ll know I’m a bloody foreigner, but at least I can look good!_

Friday night, the end of the working week, and London was already heaving as Thomas slowly sauntered along Eaton Square again. He noticed that the lights were on at Crowborough’s house. _A grand dinner, no doubt. I hope ‘e chokes on it._

There was a flower-girl standing on the corner of Cliveden Place and Eaton Terrace. “Buttonhole, sir?” Thomas stopped and thought for a moment. “Do you have any gardenias?” “Yes, sir, bit pricey, I’m afraid: ninepence.” She held one out: the stem was wrapped in green twine, the flower nestling on a leaf. She pinned it carefully to his lapel. Thomas gave her a shilling. “Keep the change.” She gasped, “Thank you kindly, sir”, and gazed after him as he strode off.

_As of this morning I’m the Personal Assistant to a marquess, and earning three hundred quid a year, all found. Why the bloody hell not?!_

It was still only five past seven, so, mindful of Bertie’s admonition about when to arrive, Thomas dawdled around Sloane Square. There were benches here and there, and he sat down, people-watching again – and what people! Rich, Smart, Fashionable, Beautiful, Strange: purl any combination.

 _‘N’ to think that just ten days ago I’ad no job, no future, nothin’. I must write to Spratt, ‘n’ ‘e can tell ‘er Ladyship all about it_.

Somewhere a clock struck the quarter. He got up, crossed the square, up Sedding Street, past the Cadogan Hall. Ellis Street was the second on the left, and no 5 the third on the right. No need to knock, the gallery door was open, the room full of lights and people.

_Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose! What would me Mam say?_


	10. Into the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lettie's soirée, and its unexpected aftermath.

The next three hours were something of a blur. Having fought his way past what purported to be a Russian princess, Thomas was swept off by Lettie, dressed in a pin-stripe suit, to meet the former editor of the Burlington Magazine, who talked about impasto, Burnt Sienna and post-Impressionism till Thomas thought his head would explode. He was also “chatted up” by Duncan Grant, whose picture Rosamund did buy (haggling over the price like a real pro), drank four of Lettie’s lethal cocktails, served to him by Hettie, Lettie’s sylph-like girlfriend, who greeted him with “Hello, I’m Let’s Het, who isn’t”. By ten o’clock, he was practically “last man standing”, though it was more like leaning, since he found himself doing just that against the side-wall of the gallery, in close proximity to a large canvas of a male nude, who he could swear was giving him the eye.

Thomas suddenly felt a hand on his arm: it was Bertie, who he hadn’t spoken to all evening.

“Hello, old chap, how’re you feeling?” said the latter.

Thomas pushed himself upright, and wiggled the empty glass he was still carrying. “You were right about these, blimey! What does she put in them?”

“Better not ask.”

Suddenly, Letitia, who’d been helping Hettie tidy up, grabbed them both by the elbows, “Now boys, the night is yet young and so are you! How about a little supper, and then a couple of hours at The Behemoth!”

“Oh, no, not tonight, Let!” exclaimed Bertie, “the last time you took me there, I nearly got eaten alive by a Rumanian Countess in drag … “

Lettie laughed, “Oh, I remember that, she “vanted to take you avay to her castle in Transylvania” - it was hysterical … “

“Hmf … it was OK for you, you were only watching … she was very, er, large … No Lettie, my dear, I’ll let Thomas squire you for the night, I think, I need my beauty sleep … and Thomas, we still have a couple of things to sort out before Monday … the Lord knows how much sleep you’ll get, so shall we say a post-prandial cup of coffee at Fortnums at … two-thirty tomorrow afternoon? Good, now, I’m orf. Lettie, take good care of Thomas, he’s ‘precious cargo wanted on voyage’, you know.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be just fine.” Thomas smiled a little wanly.

Bertie kissed Lettie on both cheeks, shook hands with Thomas, and trundled off.

“I do worry about him,” said Letitia. "He’s such a love, I just wish he could find a good screw once in a while. You see, Thomas, he has a mother, a terrifying one, she’s quite a hindrance to his, er … development. Now, are you really up for this?”

Thomas took a deep breath, “you bet!”

“Very good … so, let us be going … Het, darling, are you all right?”

Hettie emerged from a tiny kitchen at the back, up to the elbows in soap-suds. “Nearly done, I’ll finish up here and lock up. Have you got your keys to the flat?”

Lettie scrabbled in her very capacious black handbag. “I most certainly have … oh, Thomas, this is for you, and for God’s sake don’t lose it. I took the precaution of telling Rosamund, in advance, that you’d probably be back very late, and she lent me a spare key to downstairs at number 35.”

She handed it over. “Right, we’re all set.” She scurried to the kitchen and gave Hettie a kiss. “See you in the morning, my love.”

“Bless her heart, I don’t know how I’d manage without her. Now, first a little fodder – there’s a very decent Italian just down the street - and then The Behemoth. Come, Thomas, iniquity calls.”

*****

An hour or so later, well stuffed with Spaghetti Carbonara and somewhat sobered up by San Pellegrino, Lettie and Thomas walked back to Sloane Square. Lettie hailed a cab, and said, “Corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton, please.” They sped off into the night, saying not a word. As she turned back from paying for the ride she explained, “I didn’t talk in the taxi, since, had the driver heard where we were really going, he would probably have refused the fare. The Behemoth is notorious, and you’re about to find out why.”

Opposite the turn into Old Compton Street was Tisbury Court, a narrow throughfare, not much more than a passageway: it was thronged with people. Lettie led Thomas to the stairwell of the second building on the right, and they walked down a set of metal steps. At the bottom, lit by a single flambeau, was a door with a devil’s face painted on it. Letitia knocked, ta-ta-taah-ta-ta, and the devil’s right eye opened. “The Breasts of Boadicea”, she murmured. The eye shut, and bolts could be heard rattling. The door swung open, “Welcome, denizens,” said a voice in the darkness. The door clanged shut behind them.

“It’s OK, Denis, you can cut the crap,” said Lettie briskly.

“Oh, Letitia, darling, it’s you, thank the Lord!” The owner of the voice, a tall, thin, elderly man with grizzled hair and a monocle, and clad in immaculate evening dress, emerged into what passed for the light, and then looked quizzically over her shoulder, “But who is this? Who have you brought us to-night?”

“This is my good friend Thomas. Be nice to him, drinks on my tab, OK?”

“Your wish is my command. This way, please.”

He led them down a corridor into a large, low-ceilinged room. A trio was paying soft jazz in one corner. There were tables here and there, soft armchairs, couches. There was also more shadow than light, but Thomas’ eyes soon became accustomed to the gloom. Remembering a few such occasions in the company of a certain aristocrat, he was not in the least surprised by what he saw: two ladies were dancing together, two gentlemen also, some people were sitting listening to the music, and some were otherwise engaged: kissing, embracing, and more – a big sofa at the back was gently heaving with bodies in various states of undress - three men and a woman, from what Thomas could make out, and she wasn’t getting much of a look-in.

“Well, young man, does this suit you? Shall we sit, and drink, and talk, or,“ Lettie nodded towards the writhing at the back, “do you fancy something more adventurous? Anything goes here … and there are rooms, if you want some privacy.“

“I think an enormous cup of black coffee, another glass of fizzy water, and a little jazz will do very well … for the moment, at least … “

A waiter of indeterminate gender came and took their order (Lettie’s capacity for whisky seemed bottomless), and they did sit and talk, a lot. Letitia told Thomas, to his considerable amusement, that the “Russian princess” at her soirée was a complete fraud: her father was a Polish stevedore and her mother had been a tart down Liverpool docks. “It’s really funny, though, when she gets totally plastered her accent falls off!” The man from the Burlington, More Adey, had been Robbie Ross’s last lover, “you know, the man who really loved Oscar Wilde.” “I saw Ross’s death notice in The Times … very sad,” replied Thomas . “They buried his ashes in Oscar’s grave,” added Lettie. “He was utterly devoted to Wilde, and Bosie persecuted him for it – what a mess that man is … “

They were silent for a while, as the music played, then Thomas said, “Devotion, now that would be something to find.”

“And why shouldn’t you? You’re bloody handsome, even I can see that, you’re intelligent, warm-hearted, sensitive, and not afraid to cross a continent to get a job …”

“It might be a total disaster,” muttered Thomas with exasperation in his voice.

“I doubt that very much: Peter may be eccentric, but he’s a lost boy, really.”

There was a sudden kerfuffle from the back of the room. Not the writhing quartet – the lady had given up trying, and was consoling herself with a large glass of something; the gentlemen were having a whale of a time. No, standing in front of a door in the back wall was a young man with blond, wavy hair, obviously beautiful even in the low light, a jacket over one arm, his shirt all askew, “I’ve bloody ‘ad it wiv ‘im,” he said in a loud voice, rather slurred with drink, “bloody ‘opeless ‘e is!”

He staggered across the room and plonked himself down at an empty table, next to where Thomas and Lettie were sitting. He leant over and, not lowering his voice much, said to Thomas, “Hello, gorgeous, wanna fuck?” He planted a wet kiss, full on Thomas’ lips, and another … and another. Thomas kissed him back, tongues mingling. They stood and embraced, hands exploring. Nobody batted an eyelid, Lettie least of all, the music played on. They broke apart, breathing heavily. Thomas held the boy’s head in his hands and really looked at him properly for the first time. He was truly stunning: full lips, carved cheekbones, and eyes so blue … they reminded Thomas of someone else, someone far away, and he sat down suddenly, staring at nothing, the fingers of his right hand drumming on the table.

“What’s the ma’er, dahlin’?” said the boy.

“My friend is troubled, leave him be,” said Lettie.

“ … ‘n’ who’re you then, his Auntie?” replied the lad with a cheeky grin.

“Perhaps his protector for the evening ... now be a good boy, go on, shoo …” Lettie waved him away.

“It’s bein’ a good boy got me in ‘ere. Bloody dukes!” He stomped off crossly, out of the room.

Thomas ignored him, and Lettie said nothing …

“Did he say “dukes”?” murmured Thomas.

“I think so.”

The door at the back of the room opened again, and Thomas turned towards the sound. Yes, there he was, Crowborough, leaning on the door-frame, looking considerably the worse for wear and staring at the orgy on the sofa. He reached out a hand to stroke one of the men’s backs, and then turned his head. His eyes met Thomas’s. Silently, his mouth formed the word, “shit”. He walked over, leaning on the odd chair for support. “What the hell, Thomas Barrow, is the world so small that you pursue me even here?” He sat down heavily.

Thomas didn’t look at him, “I seem to remember you threw me out. Your boy went that way,” he pointed to the corridor, and turned towards his onetime lover, “He’s a good kisser, you shouldn’t waste him.”

“Hah, sampled the goods then, eh?”

“Yeah, and, unlike you, I imagine, I didn’t pay for them.”

“Touché, monsieur, but you’re right, I should go find my whore.” He stood up wearily and held out his hand, “No hard feelings, Thomas, after all these years.”

Again, Thomas didn’t look at him. “Plenty,” he murmured.

Philip let his hand fall to his side. He sighed, put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder for a moment, then turned around and left.

“Wow,” breathed Letitia, “that was quite something!”

“Could I have a drink now, please?”

“Whisky?”

“Yeah, please, at least a double.”

They sat and talked for a long time more, well into the night. Thomas told Lettie all about the Duke, and that “summer dalliance”, as Crowborough had called it. “I was nineteen, and he promised me the world. Christ, I was stupid!”

“It’s a good age for a bit of silliness. We all have to grow up somehow.”

People came and went, one or two joined them at their table, including an old flame of Lettie’s, who took one look at Thomas and asked her former lover whether she’d changed sides – “I would, for him.” Thomas snickered to himself, and replied, “takes two to tango, Ma’am.”

The debauchery around them continued, more or less, but by two-thirty the jazz trio had packed up and gone home, and most of the “denizens” had disappeared too. Denis approached their table, “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

“No, no, I’m all in,” replied Lettie. “Thomas?”

“Me too, I think, us country boys in the big city, you know how it is.”

“Right-o. Thank you, Denis. By the way, did you witness that little interchange with a certain “Lordship” earlier?”

“I did notice something … Crowborough can be such a pain! The married ones in here are always the worst. Never mind”, he sighed, “it all helps pay the bills … “

They said their farewells, and Thomas and Lettie walked a little unsteadily back towards Shaftesbury Avenue. As they stood waiting for a couple of taxis, Lettie fished in her handbag again, pulling out a large envelope,

“I probably won’t see you for a long time. It has been lovely to get to know you, Thomas ... could you give this to Peter Pelham for me, please? Post to Tangiers can take for ever, and I wanted him to have a letter from me as soon as possible. It’s part gossip, part chivvying – I really want that exhibition to happen. Help me, if you can!”

“I’ll do my best.”

Two taxis were hailed, they hugged a goodbye, and were carried off into the night. Thomas let himself in very quietly, and crept up the servants’ stairs in his stockinged feet. His mind was very full: of the past, and of the future. He fell asleep with the dawn.


	11. Last Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... only in the sense of "before leaving England". I apologise to those of you who are still "with me" - this is a very long chapter. I think I'm enjoying myself too much!

Thomas awoke late. His head hurt. The top floor of no 35 was blessedly quiet, so he hauled himself out of bed, grabbed his towel off its rail, and tottered across to the bathroom. He ran another bath, and wallowed in it for a long time, slowly coming round. His thoughts were pretty random, though … _What was it Duncan Grant had said? ‘I could paint you … all of you’ … hah! … Philip … and that boy … poor kid … _He knelt in the bath, submerged his head for several seconds, then shook himself like a dog. “Ouf, that’s better!” A distant clock struck twelve, “I’d better get a move on,” he murmured, “I have a letter to write before lunch downstairs, if I can face any,” he patted his stomach cautiously, _and then Fortnum’s –_ _Bertie does know how to treat his mates, I must say!_

Dressed appropriately for his after-lunch appointment. Thomas made his way downstairs. he knocked on Mead’s office door. “Come!”

“Mr Mead, my apologies for troubling you, but where might I find pen and paper, please? I have a letter to write.”

“Of course, Mr Barrow, I have plenty here.” He reached into his desk, and produced two envelopes and several sheets of paper. “Will that suffice?” “Yes, indeed, thank you.” "We missed you at breakfast … is all well?” “Yes, I’m fine, thank you, just overslept.” Mead arched his eyebrows, “ a rare luxury for any of us … lucky you!”

Thomas made a grateful retreat into the Servants’ Hall, where he was very glad to see Andrew, and only Andrew, sitting at the far end of the dining-table, cleaning a large silver and glass table centre, or at least trying to.

“Hello, Mr Barrow … cor, this thing ain’t ‘arf a pain! I’m usin’ vinegar and brown paper to clean the glass, and tha’s workin’ foin, but I don’t know ‘ow to get a shine on the silver bits!. Oi tried a bi’ on the bo’om, bu’ it don’ work!”

“Well, good morning to you, too … or rather afternoon! Now, ‘and it over, let’s ‘ave a look.” He examined the piece carefully. “This is lovely Art Nouveau, this is …” He turned it over. “Who told you this was silver?” “Brookes, did, o’ course!” “The bloody fool, it’s not, it’s pewter.” “’Ow d’yer know tha’?” “Look at the base, those marks, it’s not silver, it’s not supposed to be shiny. Try ’n’ put a shine on tha’, ‘n’ Lady R’ll ‘ave a fit!”

“Oh Gawd, so wha’ should oi do?”

“Well, mind you don’t get any vinegar on the metal, it won’t like tha’ either. ‘Ave you got any whiting powder?”

“Dunno, bu’ we migh’ ‘ave some in the store. I’ll go ‘n’ find one ’o the maids.”

He shot off. Thomas sat down, took a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and began to write:

**35 Belgrave Sq**

**London, SW**

**Saturday, July 31st**

**Dear Mr Spratt,**

**Since you were, in one way at least, the “only begetter” of my present situation, I thought I might write to let you know how matters stand. The interview with E & D was extraordinary, to put it mildly, and suffice it to say that I shall soon be embarking on the journey of a lifetime, which will take me far away from England, maybe for ever.**

**Please inform a “certain person” that I am eternally grateful for her assistance.**

**Though I am travelling to foreign parts, it would be most gratifying to hear news from home from time to time. Should you be inclined to enter into a continuing correspondence, I would be most grateful.**

**My forwarding address, operative from approximately August 16th, will be:**

**Le Vieux Palais,**

**Tangiers,**

**Kingdom of Morocco**

**I understand that the postal service is somewhat erratic.**

**Yours most sincerely,**

**Thomas Barrow**

He was waving it about, helping the ink to dry, as Andrew rushed back in, brandishing a little blue tin. “Found some! Now, whaddo I do wiv’ i’?”

Thomas folded his letter, put it in an envelope, and then said, “Put a little on a very soft, just damp cloth, and clean the metal very gently. Pewter should glow, not sparkle. I’d do that first, then the glass bits, maybe just with warm soapy water, ‘n’ wear cotton gloves – keeps the smears off.”

“Thanks ever so, Mr Barrow!” He paused. “If yer’ don’ mind me askin’, did you ‘ave a nice ev’nin’ yesterday?”

“I most certainly did. Now, let me see: I met a fake Russian princess, talked to someone who’d recently been mauled by a Rumanian countess, got chatted up by a bloke who apparently sleeps with anything that moves, dealt with a duke … and his whore … and drank too much.”

“Ooh-la-la!” said Andrew. “Don’t sahnd much loike ‘business on behalf of the Dowager’ … “, he added with a smirk.

“You’d be surprised! Perhaps more “because of” than “on behalf of”, but still … “

“A duke ‘n’ ‘is’ whore, eh? ‘Ow come?””

“I think it’s what Mr Brookes calls 'bein “aht ‘n’ abaht'!”

Thomas’ imitation of of “grizzle guts” was just too good – they both guffawed.

“Wo’s goin’ on in ‘ere?” came a loud voice. It was “grizzle guts” himself, who had just slunk into the room.

“Ah, Mr Brookes,” replied Thomas without turning a hair, “I have just been helping young Andrew here with his cleaning. Hand me that, Andrew, would you, please?”

He held the table centre out. “You knew this metal was pewter, didn’t you?”

“What if I did?”

“Why didn’t you tell Andrew? Part of your job is to help train him, not to help him make mistakes.”

“I’ll thank yer kindly not ter tell me me bis’ness!”

“I wouldn’t, were it not necessary.”

“And just what, pray, is this all about?” It was Mrs Henderson, who had clearly heard the altercation from her sitting-room, and did not look pleased.

“Nothing, Mrs H,” muttered Brookes.

“Is there a problem, Mr Barrow?”

“It would seem David had not given Andrew the correct instructions as to how to clean this.” He held it out for her inspection.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the housekeeper, “I’ll have you know, Mister Brookes, that that is a Tudric Liberty piece, the very best quality, as you might expect in this house. It was given to Lady Rosamund by her mother some years ago, and she values it very highly. You should know better! Had it been damaged, the price of its replacement might well have come out of your wages, several years' worth of them. I shall be discussing this matter with Mr Mead later.”

Brookes looked fit to be tied, and had just opened his mouth to say something he would almost certainly regret, when one of the bells rang: the Morning Room. “Well, go on, man,” resumed Mrs Henderson, “don’t just stand there gaping!”

Brookes huffed loudly, and stormed off.

The housekeeper turned to Thomas, “I’m so sorry you had to witness that. He really is getting worse.”

“From what Andrew tells me, it might be his heart.”

“Is he ill, do you mean?”

“No, Mrs H,” said Andrew,” ‘e’s after Millie, ‘n’ it ain’t workin’.”

“Oh, dear me. Well, she’s a sensible girl, thank the Lord. I daresay she’ll smack him with a feather duster when the need arises.”

“That I would pay to see”, muttered Thomas.

All three laughed.

“Well, I can’t stay her nattering to you gentlemen all day. Andrew, do you know how to clean this lovely thing now?”

“Thanks to Mr Barrow, yes, I do, Mrs H,” he replied.

“Thank you, Mr Barrow, that was most kind. I believe the piece was commissioned specially, it’s unique … dear, dear … what shall we do about David Brookes?”

She trundled off, shaking her head.

“Yer know, I wish you were First Footman ‘ere”, said Andrew wistfully, “I think we’d ‘ave a lo’ o’ fun!”

“It would be the best-fronted ‘ouse in London!” Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper, “Poofters on parade, eh? – I wonder how many posh ‘ouses in London that’s true of?”

*****

Thomas had to excuse himself from part of the staff’s lunch in order, firstly to post his letter to Spratt, and then to make it to Fortnum’s on time, but he did, just, and found Bertie sitting at a table in the first-floor restaurant with a large pot of coffee in front of him. He sat down opposite, and saw that Bertie was looking at him very oddly.

“Yes …?” said Thomas.

“Well …?” replied Bertie.

“Well, what?”

“Was it, er, a wild night in Soho?”

“Not really. It wasn’t actually my first time in such a place.”

“Really? You intrigue me …”

Thomas took a deep breath, “Many moons ago, when the whole Downton household was in London for the season, I “got involved”, shall we say, with a certain nobleman. There was a club near Piccadilly … “

“ … called the Cave of the Golden Calf,” said Bertie.

“Blimey, how do you know?”

“Peter went there once, just before he left England. We were both staying in Smith Street - it’s family owned – and he came home with the milkman – not literally, I hasten to add, not that milkman, anyway.”

Thomas laughed out loud, then muttered, “You must be the best informed “straight man” in London!”

“Me? I’m a very good boy, I am. Coffee?”

*****

Over several cups Bertie went through the final arrangements for Thomas’ voyage, handing over a little attaché case that contained his passport, a letter of credit to the bank in Gibraltar, his (first-class, Thomas noticed with pleasure) train ticket from Waterloo to Southampton Docks, the address of the hotel where he would spend a night in Gib before the short trip across the Strait, and seventy-five pounds cash as a quarter of his salary in advance – “so you can enjoy the trip, have a few drinks, and so forth: they do have a casino on board, I believe.”

“Most generous, thank you,” murmured Thomas in reply.

“Not at all: though you are strictly in the employ of my cousin, I handle the money, remember, which is just as well: Peter is pretty hopeless about such things. I see that he never runs short, but it might be something else for you to keep an eye on. Now, drink up and I’ll get the bill. Oh, I nearly forgot this.” He handed Thomas a smallish brown-paper parcel. “Open it, if you like”. Thomas did so: “Vision and Design” by Roger Fry - “the girl in Hatchards said it was just in, and Fry is a big noise in art criticism, or so Lettie tells me. I thought it might help fill you in on some of Peter’s ‘world’.”

“Thank you, again.”

“By the way, how’s the French going?”

“Pas mal, monsieur, pas mal. J’arrive juste à me faire rappeler les joies du passé simple.”

“Gosh, that does sound rather impressive!”

“It just means I’m trying to remember a fancy, and rather old-fashioned, way of writing ‘I was’ or ‘I read’ … or ‘I wrote’, for that matter. It’s not something you’d ever say in a restaurant or at a market or … ”

“ … in the souk of old Tangiers?”

“Not a chance.”

A waitress stood at Bertie’s elbow. “Two-and-nine, sir, please.” He handed over three shillings, “keep the change”.

They stood up and left: next stop the tailors in Jermyn Street, where both the fitter and the shop assistant complimented Thomas on how he looked in his new gear just fulsomely enough for him to notice … well, what Bertie was totally oblivious to; and he also insisted on getting Thomas three new shirts and a couple of silk ties – “why not, it’s all ‘on the estate’?”. “I think I’m going to need another suitcase,” said Thomas. “No problem, there’s a top-class luggage place in Burlington Arcade.” That all took till about four-thirty, when they parted company.

“I have an assignation of my own this evening”, said Bertie, as they ambled along Piccadilly.

“I won’t pry.”

“She’s a very nice girl, maybe too nice for me.”

“I doubt that … “

Bertie looked a bit lost for a moment.

“Well, Thomas, I think this is good-bye, or rather, farewell. I intend to visit Tangiers in the spring, and meanwhile expect regular reports of how things are going. I’m in town quite a lot, or you can write to me at Brancaster.”

“Received and understood. With all this lot,” Thomas indicated the five, or was it six, things he was carrying, “I think I need a taxi.”

Bertie hailed one, actually hugged Thomas, was almost in tears, and then waved him off.

Thomas was back in time for tea and cake that day, finished “The Mysterious Island” before supper, and then taught Andrew the “French Defence” in chess, including a couple of ways of defeating it.

*****

Sunday was a “day of rest” that he sorely needed. He went for a long walk in St James’s Park, where he sat on a bench for an hour reading The Sunday Times, had lunch with the staff, and another nap after it; then he did some packing. At tea-time he was given a note by Miss Plunkett which contained a request for him to call on Lady Rosamund in the Library at six o’clock.

_Lor’! Now what?_

At the requested time he tapped on the Library door. “Come!” came the answer.

It wasn’t really a Library at all, more a small reception room with some bookshelves. _I wonder whether Her Ladyship reads very much?_

Rosamund was sitting at a small desk as he entered, but rose to greet him. A kiss on both cheeks. She indicated two chairs by the fireplace, “Please, let’s sit down. Sherry?” (There was a decanter and two glasses on a small table between the chairs.)

“Thank you, yes.” It was bone-dry Manzanilla, very good.

“You know, Thomas, this is the fourth time I’ve seen you this week-end!”

“Really? You have me at a disadvantage!”

“Well, the first is of no matter, but suffice it to say that yesterday afternoon I saw you and Bertie twice, zooming around Jermyn Street and the Burlington Arcade like men on a mission. When you came out of the luggage shop you nearly knocked me over!”

“Sorry,” mumbled Thomas, sipping his drink.

“Don’t worry, it’s of no importance whatsoever, and, anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with myself. I’d just been in the antique jewellers next door.” She picked up a thin little box from the table, and held it out to him. “This is for you.”

Perplexed, he took it, and opened it. Inside there was a silver cravat pin: two enamelled flowers, a pink rose and a white lily, their stems intertwined. There was some writing on the stems, which Thomas couldn’t pick out. “Would this help?” asked Rosamund with a smile. She passed him a magnifying glass.

“It reads ‘P … P … KALOS’ … in Greek”, said Thomas.

“Gosh, that’s more than the dealer knew!”

“I learned Greek for a couple of years at grammar school.”

“ … and unlike my dear brother Robert, who had it drummed into him at Eton for five, you haven’t forgotten every word! So, what does it mean?”

“Well ‘P’ is ‘R’ in Greek, therefore: ‘R R is beautiful’.”

“The man in the shop just said it was supposed to have belonged to Oscar Wilde.”

“So ‘R R’ would be Robbie Ross. Good heavens!” Thomas’s heart was thumping. “It’s lovely, I don’t know what to say … er … thank you … er … !”

“Don’t mention it! A little memento of your visit.” She paused. “By the way, I heard about Brookes and the pewter. He’ll really have to go, it’s such a bore! I’ll get Mead to give him a good reference … there must be some military club in St James’s that could do with an irascible servant! Replacing him is another matter … “

Thomas thought for a moment, “Might I suggest you ask Bertie Pelham about ‘E and D Services’?”

“You’re very mysterious.”

“They’re very, er, discreet.”

“I think I get your drift, Thomas, thank you.” She sighed. “Now, I’m sorry to say I must bring our little chat to an end. I have a very dull dinner to attend. My cousin, Lord Stratheden is a widower, and his only daughter wishes to marry. Her suitor is “of the manufacturing classes” as Stratheden would say – he’s such a snob! Anyway, he wants me to “vet” the young man for suitability. If it were not for the fact that that little Rosemary, though considerably plainer than most pikestaffs, is a very sweet girl, I’ve half a mind to tell her Pappa that her swain is perfection incarnate, even if he’s the biggest rogue in London. Hmf!” She turned to Thomas, “Are you all set?”

“Nearly, just one case left to pack.”

“When’s your train?”

“Ten eighteen.”

“And you embark?”

“At three-thirty.”

“How are your sea legs?”

“Non-existent, as far as I recall.”

“I’ve found a little brandy helps.”

She smiled, and laid a hand on Thomas’s arm. “Good luck, and … write to me, will you? I would like to know more about Thomas Barrow.” She eyed him questioningly. “You intrigue me, a lot, and I could do with a little intrigue.”

*****

Staff supper was uneventful, though Brookes sat there throughout like a morose thundercloud, while Millie and her colleague Nell whispered and giggled together. Andrew disappeared down to the mews with a wink to Thomas – “I’m goin’ ta show John Bretby that French Defence … ‘n’ stuff”. Thomas raised an eyebrow and said not a word, then went back upstairs to finish his packing. _Where can I put that pin? I suppose I could just wear it – I am going “first class”, after all!_


	12. Southward Bound 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to those of you still with me: this has been a long time coming - I felt really stuck for several days, knowing where I wanted to be by the end of it, but not quite sure how to get there.  
> RATING WARNING: this one starts out as "G" as anything could be, I think, but the last half is definitely "E", oh yes!

Thomas awoke early, very early, The house was utterly quiet; then, as he lay there, he heard a distant door shut and pattering feet. _Ah, another day begins. Hall-boy or maid, I wonder? Probably the last time I’ll ever hear such a thing … Now, let me see whether I can make it to the bathroom opposite before someone else does._

He did. Another long, slow bath, then, dressed in his best, a check of the room and his bags. He walked slowly down to the Servants’ Hall: the long-suffering Dolly was already in evidence, stoking up the range, putting water on to boil, and so forth. He cadged a cup of tea, and went to sit down. Miss Plunkett walked in a couple of minutes later, and yawned behind her hand.

“Excuse me!” she exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, I know the feeling of old.”

“Are you leaving today as planned?”

“Oh yes, all done and dusted.”

“You’re looking very smart.”

“I am to report back to Her Ladyship on my return – I like to look my best.”

“Really?” said Miss Plunkett, with the ghost of a smile.

_You know I’m not going “home”, don’t you?_

The rest of the staff soon joined them, Brookes last of all – he was still looking ratty. All stood on the entrance of Mr Mead, who, as they all sat down again, said, “David, I need you to see you in my office after breakfast.”

That did little to lighten the atmosphere, and Thomas was glad to escape back to his room to begin retrieving his bags. With three suitcases and a briefcase, it took a couple of trips, but by nine-thirty, he was all set. He tapped on Mead’s office door.

“Mr Barrow! I think you’re leaving us today. Do give my regards to Charlie Carson.”

“I shall be sure to do so.” _Like hell I will_. “And thank you for looking after me so well while I have been here.”

“Your company has been most agreeable to us all.”

Thomas smiled and left. Andrew was loitering in the passageway from the Servants’ Hall to the service door.

“I ‘eard you wuz leaving to day. ‘Ave a good journey … ‘ome.” He smirked. “ … but, I remember you talking about ‘seein’ a lot of sun’ … yer not goin’ ‘ome, are yer?”

Checking no-one else was about, Thomas murmured, “Anywhere but … just keep it to yerself, hm?”

“I certainly will.”

“I’ll send you a postcard … now, could you ‘elp me with me luggage.”

“I certainly could.”

Taxis were always easy to find in Belgrave Square, so soon they were loading Thomas’ bags into one. Andrew heard Thomas say, “Waterloo,” and then he was gone.

*****

Taxi-ride to Waterloo Station: uneventful; train-ride to Southampton Docks: uneventful; boarding procedure on “Blue Star”: uneventful.

*****

By Bertie’s generosity, Thomas had also been provided with a first-class cabin. A steward unpacked his bags, and laid out his dinner shirt, tie, jacket and trousers. Thomas itched to do it himself …

“Drinks in the Fore Saloon at six, sir. Can I be of any further assistance?” It was a Devonshire voice, and its owner shortish, maybe five-seven, pink “scrubbed” face with freckles, brown wavy hair, eyes to match.

_Well, you are rather easy on the eye … but I think I’ll keep me powder dry … fer now …_

“No, thank you, I’m fine. Er, just one thing: I imagine you’ve been “assigned” to me for the duration of the cruise?”

“Yes, sir”, came the bright response, “I have five other cabins and nine more passengers to look after.”

“Uh-huh … so what’s the drill onboard ship? I was in service myself once, so I know what it’s like. Is it first-name or surname only?” _No harm in being friendly_.

The young man smiled. _Good smile, that …_

“As you prefer, sir. My name is Peter Davies.”

“Peter … Thomas Barrow.” He held out his hand, which Peter shook, rather shyly.

Thomas smiled and said, “I think you’re rather new to this game? Am I right?”

Peter blushed a little and looked at the floor. “Yes, sir, second voyage.”

“Well, I hope you won’t find me too much trouble. How’re the rest of your, er, flock?“

Peter smiled wryly. “Next door”, he pointed to the right, ”is a single lady, elderly, very quiet; beyond her a young married couple, who’ve already had a row; beyond them is a big cabin, parents and a teenage son. On the other side, an older married couple, she heaving with jewellery, he smelling of drink; and then another, er, single gentleman, about sixty - his clothes are exquisite, I think he’s foreign, German maybe … “

“So the married ones’ll be fun, then?”

“The oldies, well, they’re at least used to each other. I just hope the young ones don’t start throwing things … “ He raised his eyebrows, smiling again.

_That is a nice smile … I wonder …_

“I’d better get on, sir. Breakfast is cabin service, sir, between eight and nine-thirty. Full English or Continental?”

“English, please.”

“Earl Grey, Darjeeling … or coffee?”

“Darjeeling, please, very strong.”

“What time, sir?”

“Shall we say nine?”

“Very good, sir.”

“Do cut the ‘sir’, and call me Thomas.”

Another shy smile. “I’ll try to remember.” He left. _Hm, nice bum too …_

_Shall I ever get used to this? Some were born to laziness, some ‘ave it thrust upon them._

It was just after five. Thomas bathed, shaved, changed his clothes, glared at a few French irregular verbs for twenty minutes, then wandered off to find the Fore Saloon. Though it was only ten-past-six, the place was heaving. Thomas took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and stationed himself next to a large potted plant, people-watching, and to little effect. Not a soul spoke to him, so he ended up drinking four glasses of fizz, and was feeling more than a little woozy by the time the dinner-gong rang.

First-class passengers numbered about a hundred and twenty, and the first-class dining-room had tables for eight, with place-names all laid out. He found himself planted between two women, one the bored wife of the business man sitting opposite him, the other much more fun, a bird-like American woman, sixty-plus but dressed to the nines in the latest fashion, with pencilled eyebrows and very red lips, “Agatha Burlington, … I saw you from afar at drinks,” she murmured in that kind of voice you only get in rich women from New England, “and I said to my sister, Monica, who’s sitting just across from us,” – she nodded towards the similarly elegant-looking woman doing her best to talk to the boring businessman, “I said, Monnie, I said, I shall never understand the English. Why is that gorgeous young man standing all alone nursing his champagne and with only an aspidistra for company?” Thomas blushed a little. “No, dear boy, it’s true, why did no-one scoop you up in a minute? Oh, well: take it as read that you have now been scooped, and, for this evening at least, you will have to be my _cavalier servente_.”

Thomas smiled a cheeky smile, “Well, I might, if I knew what it was.”

“Well, hark at you! No, don’t tell me, let me guess: you’re not from London, are you? And you’re not Scottish, ‘cos I can at least understand you. Hmmmm … Yorkshire?!”

“T’other side, ma’am, just outside Manchester.”

“Well, there ya go! And there’s me, one of those rare old birds, a Yank who does foreign, I should know the difference by now! As for “cavalier servente”, it’s Italian for gentleman escort, more-or-less. D’you think you could manage that for an antique spinster from New Haven, Connecticut?”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“Good for you! Now, could you pass me a bread roll, please?”

They got on famously: Agatha and Monica were “doing” Europe, for the third time in their wealthy lives.They were both unmarried and both loaded, the only children of a man who’d made a fortune on the railways. They’d spent two weeks in England and Scotland (“The Highlands were dreary, it rained non-stop for four days …”), and were en route to Rome, getting off, like Thomas, at Gibraltar. Thomas was a little cautious in talking about himself, but Agatha was fascinated to discover he was going to Tangiers (“I was there in ’11 – it’s a crazy place, beautiful, but crazy – you’ll love it!”), and delighted to know he played cards, including poker, which he’d learnt in the trenches (“You know there’s a casino on board – we could clean up!” She winked and dug him in the ribs. “Monnie only plays Solitaire, but I love poker.” “What about pontoon?” asked Thomas. “Yup, that too. I learned it from our German governess, but I haven’t played for eons … “)

After dinner, and having arranged to meet the two ladies for coffee on the foredeck next morning at eleven, Thomas went for a stroll. A few people were out, mainly couples, a family or two. He leant on the fore-rail, enjoying the breeze from the sea, and smoked a cigarette.

_I may be a bit sloshed, but if sailing is supposed to make me feel queazy, it’s not happening …_

“A life on the ocean wave”, he sang quietly to himself, smiling. He was suddenly aware of someone standing beside him. In the blink of an eye, he knew who it was.

“Good evening, Mr Davies. What brings you out ‘ere at this time o’ night?” Thomas turned round, leaning back on the rail, and looking at Peter, who seemed like a chunk of shadow in the dim light.

“I’m off-duty now, Mr Barrow, so my time’s my own.”

“I see … and what were you thinkin’ of doin’ with it?”

“I thought you might ‘elp me out with that … Thomas.” Peter just stood and stared, his mouth slightly open, his breathing a little fast.

“I could try.” Thomas looked round the deck, which was now almost deserted. He put a finger to his lips, and then put it on Peter’s mouth. A sigh escaped the younger man.

“I’ll go back to my cabin,” murmured Thomas, “’n’ you stay ‘ere, ‘n’ count to a ‘undred, ‘n’ then come along: we wouldn’t want to arouse suspicions, now would we? … Knock twice, then once.” He smiled his wickedest smile, and sauntered off. Peter stood there, fists clenched, bouncing gently up-and-down on the balls of his feet, “ … seventeen, eighteen,” he muttered, “ … thirty-one … forty-eight … oh, fuck this fer a lark … “ He stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, and scuttled off Thomaswards.

*****

Thomas had hardly had time to turn a couple of lights on and take his dinner-jacket and tie off, when he heard a soft _tap-tap … tap_.

He went to the door and opened it. “You count fast.”

“I can when I want to.” He looked at Thomas expectantly, and they both smiled. Thomas gestured for him to enter, and as he did so locked the door behind him.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, ta, just yerself.”

“Well, you don’t ‘ang about, do you?!”

“I know what I want, Thomas.”

“I noticed … “

He cupped Peter’s face in his left hand. The younger man leant into the caress, sighing. Thomas bent down and kissed him softly on the lips. He drew away, but Peter’s mouth followed him hungrily, almost biting. Thomas opened his mouth and their tongues met, their breath already ragged. Peter’s arms explored Thomas’ back, grasping tightly, and Thomas responded, reaching down to squeeze Peter’s buttocks – Peter rutted against him: he was hard, hard as a rock.

“There’s rather a lot of uniform in the way, I think … “ muttered Thomas. “May I help you, sir?” He raised an eyebrow, and Peter giggled, “Be my guest.” He went to take off his jacket, but Thomas batted his hands away, “Ah, ah ... I was a valet, once … “

Deftly he relieved Peter of his jacket, bow-tie, and shirt, revealing a stocky, hairless torso, muscled like a farm-hand. Thomas took a step back, “well, just look at you!”

Peter smirked and reached for Thomas in return. “No, no, I haven’t finished. Let me free you of the, er, other restrictions.” He palmed Peter’s erection through the taut cloth of his trousers - Peter strained against the friction. Kneeling down, Thomas slipped off Peter’ shoes, reached up to undo his trouser-belt and flies, pulling down his trousers and long cotton pants. Peter stepped out of them, and Thomas sat back on his heels. It was quite a sight: tautly-muscled legs dusted with fine hair, thicker towards his fat cock, which jutted out proudly, pulsing a little. Thomas stood up, and Peter held out his hands, his eyes shining, “Now, come on, get yours off. I wanna see you … “ He undid Thomas’ shirt buttons, and ran his hands up and down his torso, his erection pressing against Thomas’ thigh.

“ ‘Ang on a tick … “ Thomas pulled off his shirt and quickly divested himself of his shoes, trousers and pants, his ivory skin glowing in the dim light, his own arousal plain to see.

Peter ran a hand down Thomas’ chest, his fingers catching on a nipple – Thomas’ breath hitched. Peter knelt down and took Thomas’ balls in his right hand, his lips an inch from the head of Thomas’ cock. He licked the tip, and Thomas gently stroked his hair. Peter took the whole of Thomas’ cock in his mouth, and went to work, sucking greedily, his tongue swirling.

“Oh, G-God,” moaned Thomas, “sooo good, so … ohhhh … “ his knees were buckling, but Peter held him fast, feasting, caressing his balls, twisting them gently. “Ahhhh, uhhh … ohhh,” came the answer, then, softly, “Hey, can we lie down, or I’ll fall down.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Thomas pulled Peter to his feet and they kissed again, Thomas gently biting Peter’s lower lip, then, as their tongues collided, Peter lifted himself completely off the floor, wrapping his legs round Thomas’ hips, so that Thomas’ cock rubbed against his arse-crack. Thomas couldn’t hold the extra weight and they ended up in a laughing heap on the floor.

“Come along, you bad boy, bed, now,” said Thomas, holding out his hand. He pulled Peter up. It was four steps. Peter pulled back the coverlet, and lay on his back, holding out his arms again. “Come ‘ere, sexy man,” he said.

Thomas sank into that embrace. They kissed, they rocked and rutted against each other for long, slow minutes, then Thomas lapped and nibbled his way down Peter’s torso and fed on his cock till the younger man was writhing out of control, his hands gripping the bedsheets, his breath heaving, “Ohhh, I’m so c … close, ohhh, I … uhhh!” Thomas’ head moved faster, his tongue seeking out the most sensitive spot, licking up and down the whole length, his lips straining, sucking. Peter grabbed him by the hair, “Uhhhhh!” he groaned, and came in torrents, pumping into Thomas’ clever mouth, that swirled and laved, savouring every drop. Thomas knelt back, panting a little, and ran his hands up Peter’s sweating body. “Beautiful”, he murmured.

“You too.” He smiled, and put his hand on Thomas’ chest. “Mr Barrow, sir, you have a wicked mouth.” He reached down to hold Thomas’ throbbing erection. “What about this? D’you wanna fuck me?”

“Yes, please.”

“ ‘Ow d’yer want me, doggy-style, or on me back?”

“You stay just as you are. I need to find something, ‘ang on.”

He returned waving a little jar, “Never go anywhere without this.”

Thomas greased up his cock, and then dived down again, his tongue expertly probing Peter’s hole, the soft, pink, puckering flesh yielding slowly, as sighs and groans came from above. “Bloody hell, ‘ow d’yer do that?” Thomas’ head popped up, “I’ve had a little experience.” “I noticed.”

Thomas took one of the pillows from the bed and placed it under Peter’s buttocks. He put some Vaseline on his forefinger, and probed Peter’s arsehole, finding his prostate and gently rubbing it, one, two. Peter sighed, “oh ... ohhh, m … more …” Another finger, a little more stroking, one, two, three, stretching, opening and closing like the gentlest scissors in the world. Peter’s cock swelled again, his balls riding up.

“Come on, Thomas,” he breathed shudderingly, “I want you inside me … now … “

Thomas smiled and withdrew his fingers. He wrapped Peter’s legs around his shoulders, placed the head of his cock against Peter’s hole and pushed, just a little. “Breathe,” he murmured, “breathe as I push, easy does it.” He pushed again, and Peter’ eyes widened. “Uhhh” … another little push, then Thomas drew back, then in again, a little deeper, slowly. He felt Peter’s whole body relax, and he began to push in and pull out rhythmically. “Oh, God,” breathed Peter, “ahhh, so … uhhh … nnnggghhhh … ” He squeezed Thomas’ cock with his arse, his own cock now fully hard once more.

“Ride me, Thomas, fuck me hard.”

“Here we go ... young ... sir,” answered Thomas, breathing faster. He picked up the pace, his balls slamming against Peter’s buttocks, the bed faintly creaking. He fucked him, hard and fast, then slower, gently, then hard again, Peter whimpering, “Yeeehhssss, more, please, more … ”, then crying out wordlessly. Thomas’ sweat was dripping from him, his pale skin flushed, his breath panting. He held Peter by the calves, driving into him. The younger man responded, reaching out his hands to rake down Thomas’ body. “Oh, God, more … faster … fuck me ... fuuuuck … ” They stared into each other’s eyes, not blinking, blood pounding, breath heaving. Thomas suddenly gasped, “Oh, ohhh, I’m gonna come, ohhhhhh, uhhhhh-huh!”, and his whole body exploded, pumping again and again into Peter’s arse, which gripped him like a vice as another orgasm tore through him.

Descending from a cloud considerably beyond number nine, Thomas pulled out and collapsed onto his back. “Ohhh, wow … “ he breathed.

“I’ll say …” answered Peter. He reached out a hand, and laid it on Thomas’ sticky, sweaty chest. “You know, you’re a nice bloke, you are.”

“Am I, really?” said Thomas. “Nobody’s said that to me for a long time.”

“More bloody fool them!”

“‘Strue, though … ”

“Don’t get it … bloody gorgeous you are ‘n’ all!”

“Hah! … I think you mean it.”

“I do, Thomas, lovely you are … and you fuck like, well, I dunno … just amazing.” Peter turned over in the bed, and laid his head on Thomas’ shoulder, “ … ‘n’ as fer that mouth o’ yours … “, he mumbled.

They lay there very quietly, not talking, just being. Then Thomas said, “does this floating hotel have hot water at such an hour?”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr Barrow, sir, guaranteed twenty-four hours a day, sir.”

Thomas walked his fingers across Peter’s lovely chest, and pinched his right nipple gently, “ ‘cos I think we both need a bath … “

*****

… and so it continued: coffee with the Yankee ladies in the morning, including an increasing load of gossip about their fellow passengers; Longmans French course after lunch, with a little Arabic to be going on with (Agatha and Monica both had excellent French, so he could practise with them as well); pontoon with Agatha over tea (“I feel rusty, Thomas, help me out!”) or on some days chess with Monnie, who, as well as Solitaire, was a dab hand at crosswords, and positively EVIL at chess. Thomas played five games with her over the course of twelve days: drew two, lost three was his score. He fared far better in the Casino after dinner each evening, taking enough risks for it to be worth his while, but, being very good at a poker face, won considerably more than he lost. So did Agatha, who, being a rich woman, came away hundreds better off by the time they got to Corunna. Here she and Monnie took advantage of the optional excursion offered to take Thomas with them to Santiago de Compostela (“The architecture, honey, AND the seafood … fabulous!”) They “did the sights”, ate prawns in garlic and little green peppers that blew the roofs of their mouths off, and, of course, bought little souvenirs of Spanish jet, for which the city was famous. Agatha insisted on buying Thomas a gold signet ring set with a jet plaque (“for reminding me how much fun pontoon can be!”), while he in turn, bought a little jet “higa” on a silver chain: “for a friend”, he said.

His nights were spent with Peter, all of them. They loved and laughed, and cried a bit, too. Both of them knew it wouldn’t last, but they were happy. Peter told Thomas he had gone to sea to escape a broken heart, so Thomas told him all about Jimmy, and the strange series of events that had led up to his being on that ship on those days, with Peter in his arms and in his bed. How Peter got away with it as to his work and the other stewards, Thomas could never work out, though Peter did remark, “Head Steward’s on the team, ‘nuff said.” He left Thomas at six every morning, brought him his breakfast, laid out his formal gear for dinner, always immaculately pressed, and was there for him every night at midnight. It was all a bit crazy, and Gibraltar was a bit teary. At first light Peter disappeared as always, but returned earlier than usual with Thomas’ breakfast, took off his clothes again, and got back into bed.

“Not a Last Supper, but … “

He suddenly started to cry. Thomas held him tight.

“Ships that pass in the night, hm … “

“ … doesn’t make it any easier, “ sniffed Peter.

“I know, I know, but I have to go, you know that, I have a job to go to … “

“Yeah, but … I’ll miss you.”

“You have no idea how much I’ll miss you,” said Thomas, with a sigh. “You’ve been good to me and good for me, after that wretched angel, Jimmy Kent.”

“He wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth you,” said Peter, caressing Thomas’ face.

“You help me to believe that, thank you.” He paused, got out of bed, and went to the desk in the room, where were his French book, his notebooks … and a little black box. He held it out to Peter.

“I want you to have this.”

Peter opened it eagerly. The piece of jet, carved into a fist with the thumb between the first two fingers, had a little silver mount, and was attached by a ring to a delicate silver chain. “Against the “Evil Eye”, said the jeweller in Santiago.”

Peter smiled, “With some o’ the mad buggers you get on ‘ere, it’ll come in mighty useful.” He put it round his neck. “I will never take this off, ever.”

Thomas bent down to kiss him. “I will never forget you, ever.”


	13. Another Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Thomas's journey South.

Thomas was very pensive as he disembarked that afternoon, a porter trundling ahead of him with his luggage.

_Ships that pass, indeed … “write to me,” I said … I hope he will … then a final kiss and a hug, and he’s gone, slaving away for Gawd knows who … can’t even wave me good-bye …_

“Penny for them, Thomas,” came a voice in his ear. It was Agatha, of course.

“Wha’? … Oh, sorry, I was miles away!”

“You’re very quiet.”

“Oh, just thinking about things. That boat was a world of its own … “

“True, and now we’re back with all the noise and bustle of this place, the Mediterranean’s answer to Torquay – boy, it’s hot!” She extracted a fan from her handbag, and flapped it vigorously. “Now, Thomas,” she continued, “which hotel are you staying at?”

“The Bristol, if I remember rightly.”

“Excellent, so are we, always do – it ain’t fancy, but it does us fine. Now, where is our porter, let’s organise a cab for the three of us … Monnie … “

She scuttled off. Thomas paused for just a moment, and looked back at the “Blue Star”: there was Peter, standing at the aft-rail. He waved once, twice, and was gone.

*****

There was a message from the Banco Galliano waiting for Thomas at the hotel reception, and a letter in a hand he did not recognise. Arranging to meet the American ladies for a drink in the hotel bar at six-thirty, he retired to his room, did some unpacking and lay on his bed for a doze – it was indeed very hot.

He awoke with a start from dreams of a certain well-muscled steward. He glanced at his watch: it was five-twenty-five. _Better have a bath ‘n’ a shave_. His room was _en suite_ , and there was a bath and a shower. _Ooh, very continental … let’s try it!_ It was a pleasant novelty.

Dressed in his new blue linen suit, he then sat and read his correspondence: the bank wanted him at twelve noon the next day, passport and letter of credit in hand. The letter was from Bertie, hoping that all had gone well thus far, and adding:

“As I told you, cousin Peter is something of an odd cove: he’s brilliant, but also fragile, manic one day, in deep doldrums the next. Do what you can to keep him on the _qui vive_ , and don’t let him bully you. I might add that his servant Yusuf is a total star, keeping that warren of a house running almost single-handed. Nor will you starve: Ali is a very good cook of suitably vast proportions, and don’t worry, sheep’s eyes will not be served.”

Thomas laughed to himself: _well, that’s a relief._ Somewhere he heard a tinkling clock-chime: just the quarter. _I’ll go down and order some champagne: I bet the ladies will like that_.

They did, and, knowing all the staff from previous stays, asked the barman, George, about any new restaurants in town. There was a new one on the other side of the Rock, down on Catalan Beach, very Spanish. Would they like to try it? They would. Should he order them a taxi? He should. Champagne rapidly polished off, they all three piled into said cab, and sped away. Now, Thomas had never been much of a one for seafood – you don’t get much of that in Stockport - but his experience of prawns in Galicia had emboldened him: they shared a huge paella stuffed with aquatic creatures of all kinds, bits of chicken and hot chorizo sausage, drank far too much white wine, and piled back into another taxi, returning to the hotel at about ten-thirty.

As they trundled upstairs, all a little the worse for wear, Agatha said: “We embark for Italy tomorrow morning at ten sharp, and I bet we’ll all have headaches, but do be a doll and be around to see us off.”

Thomas promised, yawned behind his hand, apologised profusely, kissed his two friends soundly on both cheeks, and tottered off.

“He’s a dear boy, Monnie,” murmured Agatha, “but will he be OK?”

*****

Next morning they were all three a little bleary, but Thomas kept his promise and saw them off. “Write to us, Thomas," said Monica, handing him a scrap of paper with ‘Albergo Sole, Campo de' Fiori, Roma’ written on it, "we’ll be there till the end of September.”

He then went to deal with the bank, where the clerk’s face changed from “Who the hell are you?” to “Yes, sir, yes sir, three bags full, sir”, when he read Thomas's letter of credit, returning with confirmation of his new account and an envelope containing another seventy-five pounds in cash. _Bloody ‘ell, I’ve never ‘ad so much money in me life … don’t knock it, lad, you may never get another chance … with what I ‘ad in advance from Bertie, plus me winnin’s in the casino, that makes over three ‘undred … very nice, ta …_

The boat across the Straits of Gibraltar didn’t leave till six in the evening, so Thomas found a little coffee bar for lunch, decided against a hike up the Rock in 90 degrees plus, and strolled back to the Hotel Bristol. He had another snooze and packed his bags again. It was a bit of a trek to the ferry terminal, so a taxi took him. The boat was distinctly unprepossessing, definitely belying the name “Gibraltar Queen”, written rather rustily across its bow. Swarming with Moroccan workers, there was only one other British-looking couple, a young married pair, so obsessed with one another that they didn’t notice Thomas, the sunlight glittering on the water, or the stunning view of two continents one jot. He leant on the forerail, taking all that in, and thinking many thoughts as the ferry chuntered onwards.

Two hours later, he was in another world. He stood on the quay of Tangiers in the fading light, wondering “now what?”, when he suddenly noticed a little man sidling towards him.

“ _M’sieu_ ... Barro’?”

“Yes.”

“ _Je m’appelle_ … I am called Yusuf, the servant of Milor’ Pel’am. Please come with me.” He loaded Thomas’ suitcases onto a little trolley, and set off slowly.

“Well”, muttered Thomas to himself, “‘ere goes …”, and followed Yusuf down the lamp-lit street.


	14. A quiet evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is made welcome at Le Vieux Palais, though his new boss is nowhere to be seen.

The streets through which Yusuf led Thomas became narrower and narrower, such that the little cart carrying his luggage could barely squeeze down them; at last they stopped in an alleyway lit only by two torches on either side of a large and ancient-looking wooden door: this was Le Vieux Palais. Yusuf produced a very big key from somewhere within his voluminous robes, and opened the door, which creaked a little on its hinges. He gestured through the doorway:

“Welcome, M’sieu Barro’.”

Thomas stepped through. Inside, by the light of lanterns in the walls, he could see round arches and a flag-stoned courtyard with what looked like a well in the centre. Yusuf pulled his trolley over the threshold, shutting and locking the door behind him. He shot two bolts, high and low.

“This way, m’sieu’.” He trundled off to the right, where Thomas could see a broad flight of steps. Whitewashed walls glimmered gently in the dim light.

Two flights of stairs led to an upper floor, with more wall-lanterns, white walls and a terracotta tiled floor. It was blessedly cool. Yusuf turned to the right and led Thomas through another heavy, iron-hinged door.

“These are your rooms, m’sieu’.” He gestured through another door on the right, “A sitting-room here, which has a door through to your bedroom and bathroom.”

The whole was lit by candles, dozens of them, in tall candelabra standing on the floor, on the window-sills, on tables, everywhere. _It’s like something from “The Thousand and One Nights” – all I need now is a handsome man on a magic carpet …_

“Shall I draw you a bath, m’sieu’?”

Thomas started from his reverie. “ _Ça serait très gentil, merci_.”

“ _Ah, m’sieu’ parle français_ … _?_ “

“ _J’espère que oui!_ ”

Yusuf smiled broadly, “but you must let me practise my English!”

“With pleasure,” answered Thomas, sounding a little relieved.

“I will take your _bagages_ to your bedroom, m’sieu’, and unpack them.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“ _Je vous en prie, m’sieu’._ ”

He left Thomas in his sitting-room, and walked through to the bedroom. Soon Thomas heard the sound of gurgling water. He stood at the open window, drinking in the sounds and sights: hundreds of lights outside twinkling in the darkness, a laugh, a barking dog or three, the faint scent of spices, brought on a gentle breeze.

“M’sieu, your bath is ready. Ali is preparing a light supper for you. Shall I bring it in an hour or so?” He gestured to a small low table under another window.

“That would be lovely, but … is Lord Hexham not at home? Should I not go and make myself known to him?”

“ _Pas de problème, m’sieu’. Demain …_ tomorrow, sometime … no ‘urry.”

“Uh-huh … well, if you say so … and thank you again.”

“ _Pas du tout, m’sieu’.”_

He bowed slightly and left.

Thomas went into his bedroom and undressed. Yusuf had laid out pyjamas from his suitcase ( _which I haven’t worn at all!_ ) and a white cotton robe. There were flat leather slippers by the side of the bed.

The bath was heaven. It had been a long and sticky day, and Thomas was tired. Yusuf had sensibly not made the water hot, just tepid enough not to be cold. Thomas lay there almost in a trance, till a little shiver told him he needed to get out. There was a huge white towel on a chair by the bath. He wrapped himself in it, and sat down, feeling rather drowsy, then stood and patted himself dry. He donned the pyjamas and the robe, and went and sat in the chair by the side of the little table in his sitting-room. He dozed a little.

He was roused by the clink of glass. Yusuf had padded in almost silently, bearing a large brass tray, on which was half a roast chicken, a mound of couscous and a little bowl of fruit: peaches, grapes and a pomegranate; there was also a carafe of white wine, very cold, and a long-stemmed crystal glass.

“I did not know there could be drink here,” said Thomas. “Is it not forbidden?”

“To the devout it is, m’sieu’,” but you are _d’outre mer_ , from beyond the sea, _un étranger …_ a stranger from foreign parts. It is not the same for you.” He smiled rather shyly.

“I see … well a glass will be most welcome.” Yusuf went to pour, and Thomas almost stopped him. _No, don’t, it’s his job. Let him do it._ Instead, he racked his brains _Thank you, thank you … how do I say “thank you”?_ Then it came to him: “ _Shukran … shukran bezzef._ ”

Yusuf smiled, really broadly this time, showing his very white teeth.

“ _Afwan, m’sieu’, afwan …_ you are most welcome. Is there anything else I can do for you or fetch for you?”

“Did you unpack my books?”

“Books?”

“ _Mes livres?_ ”

“ _Ah, oui, m’sieu’, dans l’armoire.”_ He pointed to a large and ornately carved cupboard that took up most of the opposite wall.

“Excellent. Now, the food looks lovely, and I am rather hungry. I will eat and drink a little, and then, I think, go to bed.”

“Very well, m’sieu. Shall I leave you now?”

“Yes, please. Oh, one thing: is breakfast at a set time?”

Yusuf laughed, “ _Non, non, m’sieu_ , absolutely not. When you waken, and when you are ready, just make your way down to the courtyard, and I will bring you coffee and little cakes. Will that suffice, m’sieu?”

“Sounds perfect, thank you.”

“Very well, m’sieu. _Bonne nuit_ … and _Barak Allahu fikum_.” He bowed again.

“May God bless you, too,” murmured Thomas.

Yusuf left as quietly as he came. Thomas went over to the cupboard, and searched amongst the volumes. “Yes, here we are,” he muttered, _The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_. Suitable, or what?”

He read a little and sipped some wine, then ate most of the chicken, was delightedly surprised by the couscous, decided not to tackle the pomegranate ( _I’ll get juice all down me front_ ), settling for a few grapes instead. _Gosh, they’re good, so sweet! The gardeners at Downton would give their eye teeth to be able to grow these!_ “Downton”, he murmured, then, “Hah! I haven’t thought about Downton for nearly a fortnight,” he said out loud, “… “I wonder what’s happening there? He paused, staring into space “The same old same old, I’m sure. How could it not be?” He sighed. “Well, it’s not for me any more, thank God!” he whispered. _And here there is already a little bit of mystery: what of Milord Hexham … what indeed?_

He nearly fell asleep over Omar Khayyam, roused himself to blow out the many candles, crawled into bed ( _cool white cotton, wow!_ ) and was asleep in the blink of an eye.


	15. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet, ease, and being looked after.

It was the sunlight that woke him, filtering in through the muslin curtains - the window looked East. Still asleep, Thomas batted away the light like a fly, turned over with a little groan, but then sat up. From far away he could hear a strange singing: the call of the muezzin. For a moment he wondered where he was …

_Oh yes, Tangiers … my own bed, my own rooms … that singing, it’s gone … Shall I get up, or not? … I wonder what the time is …_

Then he heard a much more familiar sound, surely a church clock striking: one, two, three … eight … **nine!**

“How very decadent! When was the last time I woke up at nine o’clock?” he murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed, his feet searching for the slippers. He’d left the cotton robe hanging over a chair. He put it on, and opened a window. Sunlight poured in, and he shaded his eyes. Now he could see a roofscape, many flat-roofed houses, hills and a green haze in the distance. He stretched himself, and yawned, “That was a good sleep!” He scratched his head. _Now, what about breakfast? I shall take Yusuf at his word, and I shall go down just as I am …_

There was a jug of cool water and a basin in his bathroom. He splashed his face, and ran a hand through his hair. There was a mirror on the wall – “ … and the shave can wait as well …” He yawned again, “God, I need coffee!”

Thomas grabbed his copy of the “Rubaiyat” and ambled off, his slippers slip-slapping on the floor. Down the stairs he went, and out into the courtyard, where a very large fig tree cast dappled shade over a marble-topped circular table and two white wrought-iron chairs.

Yusuf appeared as if from nowhere. ” _Bonjour, M’sieu_ Barro’.”

“Good morning.”

“Please be seated, m’sieu’. I bring breakfast.”

Still half-asleep, Thomas sat in the chair with his eyes closed. Again Yusuf reappeared silently, laying a veritable feast on the table: dates, cut figs, a sliced peach, a glass of orange juice, a little metal pot of coffee, and a plate of, to Thomas’ eyes, very odd-looking pastries of different shapes. Sensing his disquiet, Yusuf said, pointing to the crescent-shaped ones, “These are _cornes de gazelle_ , er, horns of gazelle, I think you would say in English, these triangular ones _briouat_ , these _baklava._ Ali made them all, most _délicieux_.”

“Thank you, they look amazing … “

“I leave you in peace, m’sieu.” He slipped away.

Tentatively, Thomas tried one of the _cornes de gazelle_ , which were indeed delicious, full of the flavour of almonds, cinnamon, and orange-flower water. The orange juice was unbelievably good, the coffee was black as black, strong and sweet. _Blimey, could I ever get used to this!_

In a little while Yusuf came back, most solicitous: “ _Ça vous plaît, m’sieu?_ ”

”It most certainly does, thank you. Ali is a genius, I think!”

“I shall tell him, m’sieu, ‘e will be very ‘appy!” He smiled broadly. “More _café_ , m’sieu?”

“Yes, please!”

With several more cups of coffee, more pastries ( _those baklava are divine!_ ), two figs, and some slices of peach, Thomas felt very full and thoroughly awake.

Yusuf came with a second refill of the coffee-pot. “Yusuf, may I ask for something?”

“Of course, m’sieu. 'Ow may I be of service?”

“I need to write some letters and postcards. I could sit here and do it, but could you fetch some for me, please?”

“ _Mais bien sûr_ , of course, m’sieu! I bring you pen and ink too.”

The note-paper was heavy, creamy-white, headed “Le Vieux Palais, Tangiers”. With no more ado, Thomas began to write:

**Dear Bertie,**

**Well, at last I’m here, and, since that is in large part because of your trust in me, I thought I might drop you a line.**

**The voyage had its moments, which I will most certainly not put down on paper, especially to an upstanding gentleman such as yourself. I made friends, and had a damned good time, though am distinctly lacking in sleep, if you follow me.**

**Thank you for the letter which was waiting for me in Gibraltar, and for arranging everything at the bank: they were most cooperative. Having made decent use of your “supplies” at the onboard casino, I don’t anticipate being short of funds for quite some time, if ever.**

**I arrived yesterday evening – Yusuf found me on the quayside, brought me and my luggage to the house, brought me some of Ali’s delicious food, and I slept like a log. I haven’t seen or heard hide nor hair of His Lordship yet, but Yusuf assures me there is “no ‘urry”, as he charmingly put it.**

**So far, this is the life of Riley – a thousand thanks again.**

**Yours most sincerely,**

**Thomas Barrow.**

Amongst the stack of paper and envelopes Yusuf had brought him, there were a few rather faded postcards. He wrote one to Rosamund: “Just arrived after a lovely voyage. No intrigue yet …”; to Andrew Simmons: "The sun is shining here, hope your gardening proceeds apace"; to Spratt: “All going well, Tangiers as mysterious as I anticipated. My regards to Her Ladyship”; to Monnie and Agatha: “Hope this finds you well. Am safely ensconced in glorious surroundings, and being spoilt rotten”; lastly to Peter Davies: “Miss you, dear Peter, you’d love it here. Love and hugs, T”

Yusuf pottered in and out, bringing iced drinks and coffee at just the right moments, as the day warmed up. Thomas finished his correspondence. “Another bath, I think,” he murmured to himself. Yusuf was sitting in a shady archway of the courtyard. Thomas passed him the letters and cards, “Please could you post these for me? I’m going back upstairs to wash and dress.”

“As you wish, m’sieu.”

The church clock struck twelve.

“That is a church, I imagine.”

“Yes, m’sieu, it is the _église_ of the Catholic Christians.”

“Aha, I should visit that … " _... I suppose_ ...

“The priest is French, rather a strange person.”

“How very interesting.”

“Not really, m’sieu’, just odd!”

Thomas smiled, nodded, and slowly set off up the stairs. Following the example of the previous evening, he ran a cool bath, and lay in it for ages, feeling a bit sleepy again, in spite of all the coffee. He shaved, then dressed all in white. A little further reading was interrupted by a scratch on the door: Yusuf again, with lunch, “A little grilled fish, m’sieu – one of Ali’s specialities.”

“You really are spoiling me.”

“ _Pas du tout, m’sieu_. It is our pride to keep a good ‘ouse for Milord and his er, … guests.“

_Don’t disillusion him, just be grateful._

Thomas smiled and nodded again. Yusuf disappeared. _He truly is like a ghost. How on Earth he and Ali run the whole show on their own, I shall never know … but then I hardly need to …_

The fish was ambrosial, and there were more figs and slices of peach, another little carafe of wine.

“I’m beginning to feel like a complete fraud, to be honest,” muttered Thomas, “but I’m not complaining.”

The house was very quiet, and so was the whole neighbourhood, for, in the heat of the day, everyone who could slept. Thomas joined them, lying flat out on his bed, and dreaming of turbaned gallants with flashing eyes.

It was nearly five when he awoke. _I wonder whether tea is a possibility?_

Even that distinctly English request didn’t faze Yusuf, who produced black tea, milk, sugar, and more little cakes. _My God, I’ll get fat …_

“His Lordship has requested you to join him for dinner, m’sieu’.”

“Uh-huh, when and where?”

“In the corridor past your rooms is another door. Go there when you hear the church clock strike eight and knock. He will answer.”

“Would I be right in thinking this will not be a formal occasion?”

“You would, m’sieu’”, answered Yusuf with a smile. “ _Cérémonie_ and Milor’, _non_ ,” he waved his hands disparagingly, “not at all.”

_Thank God for that, I didn’t pack “white tie”!_

“By the way, m’sieu’, it is a very heavy door, you must _frapper_ , er, knock very ‘ard.” He mimed the action with his fist.

“I shall bear that in mind.”

Left alone, Thomas drank his tea, ate just one little cake, and read more “Omar Khayyam.” At seven, he began to think about his dinner engagement, had yet another bath, shaved with great care, cleaned his teeth, combed his hair, and … _what about some cologne?_ There was a big basin in the bathroom, and he spied a couple of interesting-looking bottles on a nearby shelf. “Hmm, hm … ahh, _Bois de Santal_ , excellent!” A dab here, a dab there, then a final check in the mirror: _you’ll do, lad!_ He actually felt distinctly nervous.

At about seven-forty-five he walked out into the corridor, and leant on the stone balustrade overlooking the courtyard. It was a warm evening, the sun was going down behind the _palais_ , and the sky was striped with pink and gold. Somewhere a bird sang, shrill and sweet on the sultry air, then Thomas heard the church clock begin its long build-up to the hour, not the Westminster chime he knew of old, but the much more unfamiliar, harsher bells of the South: _ker-_ chunk _, ker-_ chunk _, ker-_ chunk _, ker-_ chunk; a pause, then: **Clang!**

He rapped hard on the door: _ta, ta … taaa_ …

Nothing … then shuffle, shuffle, click, and the door swung open.

There, at last, was Peter Pelham. He and Thomas just stood on either side of the doorway, looking at each other, staring silently.


	16. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner, conversation, and ...

Thomas was utterly transfixed. The lamplight was only a glow, but: _so this is Peter Pelham, my God in heaven! _A tall and slender figure, a shock of blonde hair, a face so perfect in every way it was like a statue come to life – full lips, bronzed skin, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and the eyes! Not blue, not grey, they were violet!

Thomas could hardly breathe, and his heart was thumping like a drum - but it was Peter who first broke eye contact. He smiled, revealing, of course, perfect teeth, and held out his hand, “Welcome, Thomas Barrow. Please, come in.”

They shook hands. Peter stood to one side, and Thomas walked into a little lobby. His Lordship placed a hand on Thomas' right shoulder, at which he thought he would faint. Peter pushed him forward gently, “Go on through”, he murmured. Thomas walked forward into what was obviously an artist’s studio, again lit by many, many candles. It was a large room, maybe thirty feet by twenty, with a very high ceiling and a domed skylight. There were canvasses everywhere, canvasses of every size imaginable, stacked up on shelves, on the floor, a few on easels, some finished, some sketches, some hardly begun. There were drawings scattered about, splashes of paint all over the place, brushes, pencils, jars of dirty water, half-used tubes of paint, palettes, painting knives – it was, to Thomas’s untrained eye, total chaos, bounded on the North side by great windows looking at a night sky still faintly streaked with pink.

“Yes, this is work,” murmured Peter in Thomas’ ear, “but I entertain in there.” He pointed to a door at the far end and gave Thomas a little nudge in the small of his back. _Too much, but …_

Thomas stepped forward, and stumbled over a painting lying propped up against a paper-strewn table. “Sorry”, exclaimed Peter, “I am so careless sometimes.” He bent down to retrieve the picture, and they both looked at it – an oasis bright with sun and dark with deep shadows, with camels and their drivers dotted about. “It’s not bad, this one, I remember that day: God, it was hot!”

“D’you ever get used to that?” asked Thomas. _Will I ever get used to standing this close to you?_

“Maybe, though I try to avoid the worst of it, stay in the shade, work early or late, rest in the afternoon … and, most of all, find plenty of time to do absolutely nothing! Shall we?”

He led the way into the far room, which was richly furnished with rugs, wall-hangings, one very large picture of Peter’s, and piles of cushions, a great brass light hanging from the ceiling, many more candles, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking both north and west. The sky was purple rather than black, and a few stars were beginning to shine, with Venus burning low in the West. There was a round, marble-topped table by the western window, on it just a bottle and two glasses. High-backed wicker chairs stood on either side.

It was all so beautiful Thomas suddenly felt like crying. He stood in the middle of the room, hands pressed to his eyes, and sighed deeply.

“Thomas, what’s wrong?”

Peter was standing right in front of him, so close Thomas could feel warm breath on the backs of his hands. Then he felt Peter’s hands on his wrists, pulling them gently away from his face. He looked into Thomas’ eyes, his own full of concern.

“N-nothing … it’s just … well … I have experienced so much goodness in the last few weeks, and I don’t … I haven’t … I … “ Then he really did begin to weep, great racking sobs that went on and on. He fished for a handkerchief, dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose.

“Oh, dear … I’m so sorry, not a g-good start, is it? … N-no use at all, am I? Sorry … “ He looked at Peter, feeling like a complete idiot, but the eyes that met his were full only of warmth, and sorrow.

“Come, let’s sit and drink, and talk, if you will.”

Thomas bit his lip, but then nodded. They sat down at the table and Peter poured them each a glass of wine.

Thomas’ mind was full of jangling thoughts. He raised his right hand, and looked ready to say something, but then just shook it in the air - he made a fist, and brought it to his mouth, as if to bite it. _Oh, fuck, what a mess!_

Peter said nothing. He sat quietly, sipping his wine. Thomas stared into space.

“You have the most exquisite profile, did you know that?”

Thomas turned to him, his face full of unbelief. “I don’t … I … c-can’t … I … “ His voice trailed off.

“You don’t … have to do anything, you can do what you like.”

“Why am I here … Milord?” He reached for his glass, and took a large gulp.

“You’re here because I need someone to talk to, someone who can cope when I’m being a pain in the arse, when I’m drunk or off my head, to tell me when I’m working too hard or when I’m being a lazy oaf. That you are beautiful is a bonus … “ Thomas went to speak, and now Peter held up his hand, to stop him, “ … and my name is Peter. None of that “Milord” or “Your Lordship” nonsense, or I might just have to smack you. Will that do?” He smiled, held his wine-glass up as if to toast Thomas, and took another sip.

Thomas really didn’t know where to look. He got up, walked to the northern window, and looked at the night. Still with his back to Peter, he said, very quietly, “Why is anyone, why are you, so kind to me? I’m not a good person, I’ve done some pretty awful things, I … “ He broke off and sighed again.

“You, me, and most of the world, Thomas, at least if we’re honest with ourselves.” He paused. “By the way, I don’t bully my friends … “ Surprised, Thomas turned around. “Yes, Bertie wrote to me too … cheeky bugger!” Now Thomas smiled, then they both laughed. Thomas shook his head and walked back to the chair. He sat down again, and drank off the rest of his wine in one go. Peter refilled his glass. Neither said a word.

Thomas drank a little more wine, then murmured, “I have been in service for fifteen years. I have always worked damned hard, scraped and scrabbled, and, yes, connived to get on. Much good it did me - then this,” he waved his glass around, “this is offered me on a plate, and I don’t know what to do with it. I just feel so bloody inadequate!”

“No need, just be there … I’m having a good day today – you wouldn’t have wanted to see me yesterday. Christ, I was grouchy. Yusuf took one look and said “Ah, Milor’ is “off” this morning, _je crois_.” Too bloody right: I’d been trying to finish a sketch since dawn, and it wouldn’t come right – drives me nuts when that happens. He's been with me for eight years, knows when to keep out of my way.”

“Did you finish it?”

“No, tore it up! Had another go today, worked first time, did loads more … I should be nicer to myself.” He paused again. “So should you.”

“Hah, at least we share that!”.

“I think we might share many things, Thomas … “

Silence beat between them. Now Peter’s glass was empty. He filled it, and said, “Here’s to finding out.” Thomas smiled rather shyly and raised his glass too. _Those eyes, Jesus!_

They talked and talked. Thomas soon stopped feeling embarrassed, Peter was so gentle, but also inquisitive. _What the hell, tell him everything!_

About an hour later, when Yusuf arrived with their dinner, Thomas had already told the sorry tale of his “dalliance” with Philip. “Crowborough?!” exclaimed Peter, “I remember him! He was Lord Cubbington at Eton, very full of himself. Only got into Pop 'cos his father was a duke. He was what two, no maybe three years older than me? Tried to rape me once, but “Papa” got it all hushed up. Nice … “

They had finished one bottle of wine, and were glad to see that Yusuf had brought another, red this time. The food arrived in what was, to Thomas at least, another mysterious-looking pot: it was a tagine, explained Peter, Lamb Tagine, his absolute favourite. “I hope you like it as much as I do.”

He then launched into some stories of his own, filling in a lot of detail about his affair at Oxford: “Jakob he was called, Graf Heinz Jakob Dallwitz von Schlesingen … God, he was gorgeous … looked a bit like you actually … but he was a cold fish, and you’re not, that I can tell … He broke my heart into a thousand pieces.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to stare into space, his thoughts a million miles away. Then he roused himself, “Hah, spilt milk, forget it!” He shook himself like a wet dog.

“I’ve spilt some milk myself of late,” murmured Thomas.

“Really?”

“He was “just” another servant at Downton, a footman called Jimmy Kent. I shall never forget the first time I saw him, like a little Greek faun dressed all in tweeds. I fell so bloody far, and couldn’t not show it … I kissed him in his sleep.”

“Oh … “

“Yes, not my best idea. He went bloody crazy, yellin’ and screamin’. Another footman saw us … Oh God, it was ghastly … then Jimmy told the Butler he’d go to the police unless they chucked me out.”

“Oh … “

“Yeah, but the Dowager Lady Grantham saved my bacon. She thought the whole thing was completely farcical, got me an interview with Charles Devenish … “

“Ooh, yes, ‘E & D Services’. He’s very proper is Charles, at least till he gets his drag on – his Marie Lloyd is a sight to behold, I can tell you!”

He caught Thomas’ eye, and they both collapsed in giggles.

“So that’s how you ended up here,” added Peter. He looked Thomas straight in the face. “I’m so glad you did.”

“Mutual.”

Another silence filled the room.

“ … the voyage out here did me a lot of good. He was called Peter too: cabin steward, randy as hell, lovely!” Thomas smiled at the memory.

“Lucky you!”

“Isn’t Tangiers supposed to be quite a “hotspot”, so to speak?”

“Well, some people like to buy their pleasure … I don’t … there was a diplomat at the German legation … it didn’t last … “ Peter looked really sad. Thomas filled his glass.

The door opened, and there was Yusuf again, bearing another tray, more little cakes and fruit including sliced melon, which Thomas had never tasted before. He got juice all over his chin. Peter wiped it off. There was also some rather illicit home-made “hooch”. Peter explained, “Ali makes this, and it never goes outside the house. It’s bloody lethal, a bit like Moroccan potcheen. Go carefully.”

They both did, but there was also something in one of the little cakes. _That’s hashish, or I’m a Chinaman!_ Fortunately, it wasn’t that strong, and Yusuf did also bring some much-needed coffee.

They stayed awake for hours, talking about everything under the sun, from Lettie’s plans for an exhibition (“Oh, heck,” groaned Peter; “I have a letter from her,” replied Thomas with a grin, “she’s unstoppable!”), to cousin Bertie’s sex-life, and the medieval history of North Africa. They played chess (Thomas won), and Peter taught him the card-game called Ronda, which Thomas picked up frighteningly fast.

The city fell silent around them, the church clock counting every quarter-hour. Thomas suddenly tuned in to five o’clock – dawn was just beginning to make itself known, and birds were singing. “Perhaps I should go now … thank you, and, for the last time, thank you Milord.” He smiled, and Peter did smack the back of his hand, very softly.

“As Bertie said in his letter, you are practically family … “ He smiled very sweetly, then took the hand he had just smacked, and brought it to his lips. “Always kiss it better,” he murmured. Then he kissed Thomas’ palm. They stood. Peter kissed Thomas’ brow, both his cheeks, then, very chastely, his lips. _I think I might just die now …_

“Do you think you can find your way out?”

“Without knocking anything else over, you mean? I might need a bit of help.”

“Let us go together, then.”

Holding Thomas by one elbow, Peter guided him forward. He was actually no better off in terms of the effects of alcohol … and other things. They shuffled and even tottered a bit, but made it successfully. Peter helped Thomas as far as the second door. “There you are,” he whispered, “now rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many noble families in England have subsidiary titles for their eldest sons. I invented one for Philip.  
> "Pop" is an exclusive group of senior boys at Eton.  
> "Ronda" is a real Moroccan card-game, very traditional.  
> Marie Lloyd (1870-1922) was a famous British music-hall artist.  
> "Potcheen" is something like an Irish version of grappa or schnapps, often illegally made and very strong.


	17. The First Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wants to paint. The rating goes from G to E in about half a sentence.

Somehow Thomas made it into his own bed. He woke up, stark naked, many hours later, after the sweetest sleep. He could still feel Peter’s lips on his own.

_Huuuuh, what a night …_

He sat up rather cautiously: _ooh, my head …_

His feet found his slippers all on their own, and he padded about the bedroom, looking for his pyjamas, They were neatly folded on a chair, over which was draped the cotton robe as well. _Yusuf, of course …_

He ambled into his bathroom, ran some water in the basin, splashed his face, and looked in the mirror. _Blimey, you look awful, darlin’! No matter, I need coffee again._ As he walked back through his sitting-room, he noticed something pushed under the door. It was a large sheet of paper with several drawings on it, drawings of him! A couple of profiles, a picture of his mouth, a full-face portrait. _They look a lot better than I do …_

He carried it with him downstairs. At the table under the fig-tree sat Peter in another floor-length robe patterned in gold and brown, reading a newspaper. A large coffee-pot was on the table, and a half-empty plate of “little cakes”. Hearing footsteps he glanced up. “Good, er, afternoon … I think. Did you sleep?” “Like a log. You?” “Hardly at all … “

Thomas indicated the sheet of drawings. “How do you do these, when the, er, subject isn’t there?”

“’Drawing is a matter of memory’, said my teacher in Paris. He was right, of course: if I shut my eyes, I can see you in every detail … though I’d much rather look at what’s standing in front of me … “

“Hmf, even when I look this wrecked?”

“Charmingly frazzled, I call it. I’m hardly a vision of loveliness either.”

“I wouldn’t say that … “

“Flattery will get you everywhere! Coffee?”

“God, yes, by the bucketload!”

Thomas sat, and they drank coffee, lots of it. And talked, and talked some more. The paper Peter had been reading was “Le Monde” “ … news from Paris, four days old, just how I like it. If I could be bothered to get it “The Times” would be at least five days old, and anyway, I do not want to read about “dear old Blighty”, thank you very much … not interested!”

“What about the exhibitions starting up again at the Grafton Galleries? That was in The Times last week, I read about it on the boat.”

Peter’s jaw dropped, “No flies on you are there, Thomas Barrow?”

“I try to keep up. Tell me, what do you really think of Roger Fry?”

“As a painter or as a critic? He’s really clever, knows a hell of a lot, likes my work … more than I like his. He painted me once, when I was still at school.” He paused. “When can I paint you?”

“Er, whenever you want – you’re the boss!”

“Only just! But seriously, I’d love to … sitting in that chair upstairs perhaps, like you were last night.” He closed his eyes. “I can see you. I could do it this minute.”

He stood up, suddenly “raring to go”. He pulled Thomas out of his chair, “Come on! Now!”

“All right, all right! Can we bring the coffee?”

“Good idea! Yusuf!” he shouted.

The indefatigable factotum appeared out of nowhere.

“ _Oui, Milor’!_ ”

“We’re going to the studio to work. Could you bring another pot of coffee up, please?”

“ _Oui, Milor’, tout de suite._ ” He whizzed off.

Thomas suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “You were holding my hand, in front of Yusuf … “

“And … ?”

“Well, won’t he … ?”

“Won’t he what? Men hold hands a lot here.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now, come on!”

Peter dragged Thomas across the courtyard and up the stairs. In a corner of the studio there was a huge pile of cushions, tapestries, and pieces of cloth. "I know!" Peter pulled out a long piece of blue fabric shot with lines of silver thread. “Wrap yourself in that, and sit on those,” he said, pointing at the cushions. Feeling rather overwhelmed, Thomas did as he was told. Peter found a blank stretched canvas about two feet square, plonked it on an easel, and started fiddling with paints and brushes. He looked up at Thomas, who somewhat resembled a giant blue papoose, and didn't look at all comfortable.

“May I adjust you, sir?” asked Peter with a smirk.

“I think you’d better, I feel like a big blue sausage.”

“Well, that’ll never do!” He stood Thomas up again, unwrapped him, draped the cloth loosely, making a hood shape around his head, and reorganised the cushions so that Thomas was lounging rather than sitting. They both laughed a lot.

“Better, much better,” he murmured. “That colour is perfect for you. Now, keep still, hm?”

“I’ll try.”

Cue Yusuf with another bucket of coffee. “When would you like lunch, Milor’?”

“Oh, Lord knows! Er, could you ask Ali to make some … some … yes, a few _msemen_ , cut into four (they’re a bit like pancakes, Thomas) and some savoury _briouats_ , please? “ _Oui, Milor’_ , it will be his pleasure.” Yusuf padded out.

“I think I’ll want keep working all day,” Peter muttered. He looked at Thomas, now stretched out and sipping his coffee as if he’d been modelling all his life, “Are you up for that?”

“I’ll do my best, “ _Milor’_ ”. Thomas giggled.

Peter pointed at him with a brush. “Naughty boy! I might just have to smack you again … or kiss you again.” He smiled very broadly.

_Oh, please!_

Peter “rearranged” Thomas, so that the light fell just “so” across his face, and fiddled with the cloth. “Sitting comfortably?” Thomas nodded. “How still do I need to be?” “It’s not a problem, really. Drink your coffee, er, blink, and, do breathe – just don’t get up and wander about. Tell me if anything hurts, hm? And yes, we can talk.” Then Peter did kiss him, his hand lingering on Thomas’ face. “Beautiful … “ _No, that would be you._

Peter worked in silence for quite a while, his brushes making swift strokes on the canvas. He muttered to himself occasionally. Thomas could see him out of the corner of his right eye. _That face, it’s almost on fire!_

“You said you had brought a letter from Lettie. Do you know what it says?”

“Not a clue, other than she wants an exhibition of your paintings next summer, in her gallery. That’s all I know.”

“Lummee, if she wants me to fill that space, that’s about forty pictures.”

“This room is stuffed with them.”

“Yes, but are they any good? Will people be interested? Haven’t I been away too long? I dunno … “

“How about: of course, of course, and no?”

“Hah!”

“From what Lettie told me, you just need someone to organise you. Isn’t that what I’m for?”

“Maybe, but not only … “ He smiled again.

_If you keep smiling at me like that, I shall melt away completely, and not from the heat!_

More brushstrokes, more, and more. Then lunch arrived. They wandered through to Peter’s “salon”, and sat down. “Is m’sieu’ _confortable_?” Yusuf asked Thomas, as they sat down.

“Actually, my neck aches a bit.”

“I could massage that for you, m’sieu’ … “

“That would be great. While I eat?”

 _“Pourquoi pas?”_ He did.

_Gawd, he’s good at this!_

Yusuf smiled across the table at Peter, “ _Si vous permettez_ , Milor’, you seem very ‘appy today.”

“Yes, Yusuf, thank you, I am … very … ,“ said Peter. His eyes flicked towards Thomas, who was looking positively ecstatic under Yusuf’s ministrations. “Good, eh?”

“Not, ‘alf! Ooh, Yusuf, that hurts … ow, yes ... more, please … “

Yusuf pummelled and prodded Thomas as requested, then patted his shoulders, “M’sieu’ is very, er, _tendu_ , very tight in the muscles ‘ere.”

“Not for much longer, if you keep that up.”

“Whenever you wish, m’sieu’.”

“Now, come along, Thomas,” exclaimed Peter, “work calls. I can’t have you falling asleep on the job!”

He hauled Thomas to his feet again, and they went back to the studio. Thomas was re-positioned as before, and Peter attacked the canvas again, the stillness broken only by the little scrapings and scratchings of camel-hair, and the occasional tiny splash of paint on the floor. Sometimes Peter used a knife or his fingers instead. Sometimes he would bend down very close to the surface, then stand back looking at it, looking at Thomas, again muttering to himself.

“You are such a good model, you keep so still. How do you manage it?” Then he stopped painting, and thought for a moment. “God, I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

“Hardly, but I do have years of practice at standing motionless, like a piece of furniture or a scrap of wallpaper. One gets used to being ignored,” added Thomas bitterly.

Peter threw down his palette and brushes. They clattered on the floor. “I’m so sorry, Thomas, I didn’t … I will never ignore you, how the hell could I? You come here with no real idea of what you’re coming to, you try new things out without batting an eyelid, you can talk for England, you are warm-hearted and open, Yusuf says your French is excellent and you’ve even learned some Arabic! To crown it all, you’re beautiful, like an angel carved out of blood and ivory, and now you let me try to put something of all that down on a square bit of glazed sacking!” He waved the canvas about. “Ig- **nore** you, never, you lovely, silly man! I just want to …” He suddenly stopped, blushed to the roots of his hair, and stared at the floor.

Very gingerly, Thomas got to his feet. Still half-swathed in blue, he walked over to Peter, reached towards his face with his hand, and brought his lips to his own. Peter moaned softly as their mouths opened, their tongues diving eagerly. Thomas kissed Peter’s face everywhere, feather-kisses on his cheeks, eyelids, the line of his jaw, his earlobes, cheeks, and then his mouth again. Peter responded hungrily, nipping at Thomas’ bottom lip, his hand grasping the back of Thomas’ head. They stood and kissed for long minutes, straining their mouths open to devour each other more and more, then stood panting, their foreheads touching.

Peter looked into Thomas’ eyes. “Please, come with me.”

Leading him by the hand again, Peter walked Thomas back through the big salon, and round a corner through a dark red, heavy curtain. There was his still-rumpled bed.

“Please, allow me.”

He divested Thomas of the blue cloth, his white robe, then gently, gently, undid the buttons of his pyjama jacket, all the while kissing his neck, his nipples, the muscles of his chest, and then licking slowly down his belly to where Thomas was so very hard, his erection strainingly obvious.

“Just a minute”, said Thomas, slipping off his trousers and slippers. Peter looked at his nakedness, up and down, smiling, and took off his own robe with one sweep of his hand: he had nothing on underneath it. He knelt down in front of Thomas, and took his throbbing cock in his mouth, sucking and licking, gently mouthing under the shaft, diving to suck his balls, his hands firm on Thomas’ buttocks. Thomas’ cock was oozing, he could hardly stand, “Ohhhhhh, haaaa … uuuuuh,” he groaned, his head back and eyes closed, his hands carding through Peter’s hair.

Suddenly Peter stood up, picked Thomas up bodily, and carried him to the bed. He laid him down softly, then, kneeling beside him, kissed him deeply again, his hands busy on Thomas’ cock and balls. “Please,” murmured Thomas, “you come here now.” He drew Peter down on top of him, and they kissed more, their bodies moving slowly together, chest to chest, cock to cock, Thomas’ hands roaming all over Peter’s back. Then they lay still for a little, their breathing fast, looking into one another’s eyes. “My God,” panted Peter, “I never thought … “

“No need to think,” murmured Thomas, “just fuck me, er, please.”

They both laughed. Peter got out of bed, went to a little cupboard, and rummaged about. “Ah, here we are, a new bottle just for you!”

Thomas was lying on his front. Peter opened the little bottle, poured some on to his hands, and began to stroke Thomas’ back. A delicate smell of lavender and rosemary filled the air. “Yusuf was right, your muscles are very tight.” “All that standing to attention in the service of the British aristocracy, ‘inni’,” mumbled Thomas, then, “Uhhh, ah!” he yowled, as Peter’s clever fingers reached his buttocks and the cleft of his arse. A moment later he felt a breath of cool air there, and the flick of a tongue, seeking, probing, licking, a little bite here and there. _Christ, this is heaven!_ “Oh, God!” he groaned aloud, “ohhhhh, yesss!!!” He pushed back on Peter’s lips and tongue, his cock drooling into the bed-sheets. He reached back frantically to Peter’s head, “Uhhhh, m-moooore … “

Peter knelt back and tapped Thomas on the right buttock. Thomas turned over, his white skin flushed red. “Can I ride you?” he asked. Peter nodded, and lay on his back, oiling his own leaking cock. Thomas straddled him, then lowered himself down slowly, slowly, his breath hitching a little, beads of sweat appearing on his chest and face. Peter lay there, his mouth slightly open, trying to slow his own breathing as the blood pounded in his ears. Thomas leant back on both arms, completely impaled, then squeezed the muscles of his arse, once, twice … again. “Uhhhh, ngk-huhh,” breathed Peter, “wowww … ohhhhh … “

Up and down a little, then further, deeper, moved Thomas, his face taut with concentration, his eyes smoky, unblinking, his pupils wide. His breathing more laboured, he kneeled forward, Peter’s cock still deep inside him. His hands raked Peter’s chest as he rocked his pelvis and hips back and forth. Faster and faster moved Thomas, then held still as Peter fucked him slowly, deeply, then quicker, sharper, finding the place every time, waves of pleasure building in his gut.

“I’m so vehhhry c-close,” stammered Thomas, “ohhhh, mmmy, G-God … “

“Me too,” muttered Peter, lunging fiercely.

“Ohhhhh, I’m gonna … ohhhh-uh, oh! … “ yelled Thomas as he came, his sperm streaming all over Peter’s chest. Peter rammed him just once more, then roared his climax into Thomas’ arse, pumping again and again … and again.

Then they were very still, their chests quietening, their hearts slowing. Thomas lay half-crouched on top of Peter, who played with his hair. “Lovely, so very lovely,” he said. Thomas pushed himself up on his arms, and looked down, “It is you who are so very lovely. I have never seen anyone so beautiful in my life, never … and do you know how to fuck, bloody ‘ell! I’ll walk funny tomorrow … ” Thomas laughed. “Can I clean you up?” he asked. “Better than that, my bathroom’s through there. The bath’s plenty big enough for two.”


	18. As Time Goes By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... good times, bad times, crazy times  
> (This chapter runs straight into the one that follows.)

As the saying goes, “and so it began”. Thomas had never known anything like the passion between them, a passion utterly free, freely given and received. Almost any moment they were in the same room, the same space, they would rush into an embrace, kissing and holding one another as though the world was about to end. Peter painted Thomas a hundred different ways, sometimes formally posing him, sometimes just a little scribble on the back of an envelope, or drawing him secretly when he was dozing in a chair or still sleeping in the early morning. Now and again Thomas couldn’t cope with it all: he still felt fragile and cried a lot, but at least he never had to do that alone, Peter was always there, an arm around him, a hand on his shoulder, or body to body, holding him till he calmed, whispering sweet words to him, how much he loved him, how dear he was, how beautiful. Thomas also learnt to know when Peter was heading for one of his ”bad times”, like the day he’d suddenly stopped in the middle of drawing something, thrown his pencil down and stormed off without a word. He didn’t want to talk or have anyone near him, not even Thomas. “It’s not you, no … never, it’s all me, I just can’t be … well, that thing I was scribbling, it was awful, I can’t do it, it’s no good … I … ugh!“ He went down to Ali’s kitchen, returned with a couple of bottles of the “hooch”, and took himself to his bed: “Please, just leave me be.”

The first time he did this Thomas was really worried, and talked to Yusuf.

“ _Eh bien, M’sieu’_ , it ‘appens. Let ‘im work it out, ‘e’ll be fine. He will drink too much, and he will smoke too much hashish, and it will make him sick, _comme_ _un chien_ , and then one morning he will appear, looking _terrible_. Make no comment, m’sieu … and he will apologise. It ‘as ‘appened many times, but, _si vous permettez, m’sieu’_ , now you are ‘ere, you can ‘elp ‘im, and it won’t ‘appen so much.” He smiled and came very close to Thomas, “ _L’amour, le grand amour … _‘elps everything,” he whispered.

So indeed it seemed: two days later Peter re-emerged at breakfast time, shaved, dressed “Western style”, and cool as a cucumber. The only thing about him that was _terrible_ were his eyes, bloodshot and weepy. As Thomas approached him, Peter stood up, cupped his face in his hands, then hugged him till he could scarcely breathe. “I love you. I am so sorry”, he whispered. With a little effort, Thomas bit back the words and took a deep breath: “Shall we start sorting some pictures today?” With a little frown and the ghost of a smile, “We could, if you like,” answered Peter, ” … but only after I’ve drunk at least a gallon of coffee and scoffed some baklava – unless you’ve eaten them all!” “I’ve left you two, so think yourself very lucky!” said Thomas with a grin.

“Sorting pictures” was becoming something of an obsession for Thomas. When Peter opened Lettie’s letter it had revealed that she was a planning a solo exhibition of his work at the Avanti Gallery, opening on Saturday, 11th June, with a preview the evening before. She wanted “in the region of” fifty pictures. It was now mid-October: “Eight months, loads of time”, said Thomas; “Seven,” retorted Peter, “we’ve got to get them there, remember, and I’ve got to finish them, too.” Bertie was indeed coming out in April, and had told them Lettie was threatening to accompany him. “I can’t wait to see Lettie barging around the souk and the kasbah, yelling at the traders. She’ll take Yusuf with her, shout at the marketmen, and get him to translate into suitably sweary Arabic”, said Peter, laughing. “We should sell tickets!” answered Thomas.

“Organising” Peter was indeed quite a business. Thomas would spend hours going through the canvasses and drawings in the studio when Peter wasn’t there, looking and wondering, sorting pictures by size or by subject … a lot of head-scratching went on – then Peter would come and stand by him, and: “ … no, not that one, it’s awful … hmm, maybe, yes, that one … or … “, and so forth.

So much for the paintings – his other “affairs” were another matter _._

_I love you to bits, but those who’ve always had money don’t do “budgets”, or “maintenance”, or “contingencies”. Well this old place needs them._

Le Vieux Palais, was, quite simply, ancient, and bits were inclined to fall off. There were rooms in the roof, none used except for storing old bits of furniture, and Thomas swore he could hear scratchings and scuttlings at night. The noise was coming from right above a corner of Peter’s studio. Mice? Rats? Fortunately, neither, and when he and Yusuf went to investigate all was explained, including the absence of such vermin: tucked right away under a roof-strut a sleepy, slightly cross-looking owl glared at them. He or she scrambled in and out through a gap in the eaves, but they did also notice several tiles that had slipped or were missing. Yusuf, of course, had friends who could fix such things, and a couple of days later, a great web of wooden scaffolding went up, workman swarmed, hammers tapped, and all was set to rights.

Just as well, it was nearly December, and such winter as there was arrived on the occasional Atlantic gale. Yusuf took to lighting little stoves all over the place, and seemed greatly bemused that Thomas never put a coat on. “ _Mais, Yusuf, aujourd’hui, c’est comme un jour de printemps dans le Yorkshire,_ ” he laughingly remarked one day in January, as Yusuf shivered by one of the stoves in the courtyard, trying to warm his hands. “But, m’sieu’, if this is your spring day, what is a winter one like?” “Three words: cold, wet, dark … oh, and it snows, a lot.” “ _Aaaah, la neige_! It snowed one night the second year Milor’ was ‘ere, and then two years ago it ‘appened again. You see the tree in the corner, in the big pot? _Le pauvre citronnier_ , the lemons all fell off!” He looked truly distressed.

Fortunately, there was always plenty of money, whether for food, drink, fuel, or any of the other things needed to run a big house, let alone the endless “stuff” to keep a painter’s studio going. _Thank God for Bertie!_ thought Thomas many a time. The cash parts of his own salary arrived like clockwork every quarter-day (brought by a bank-clerk from Galliano’s on the ferry), not that he really had need of them, except to buy a book (in the city one bookshop had English books) or an occasional item of clothing – he looked great in a djellaba, the buying of which had been quite a palaver. Yusuf went with him to the souk, “they will cheat you otherwise, m’sieu’,” and his torrents of Arabic had reduced the price of everything by two-thirds. _I must get him to teach me some of that slang – it sounded absolutely filthy!_

In spite of occasional sulks and the odd “disappearing for a couple of days and coming back looking like crap” turn to which Peter still succumbed, work proceeded apace. “If this ruddy exhibition has to happen, I want London to see what I’m doing now, not what I was messing about with seven or eight years ago!” he insisted. “I want them to see you, Thomas, all of you.” A momentary vision of a leering Duncan Grant came into Thomas’ head, but he thought it best to say “nowt”. Whether in bed or out of it, Peter really couldn’t get enough of him. He painted him wrapped, half-wrapped, nude (a lot), sitting under the fig-tree in the courtyard, leaning against a wall in the street, head-and-shoulders, you name it. On one extraordinary day in late February, Yusuf made the mistake as he served breakfast of mentioning that it had snowed again, “up in the ‘ills”. “Aha!” exclaimed Peter “ _El Kebir_ or _es Slokia_?”

“ _Tous les deux, Milor’_.”

A light went on in Peter’s eyes.

“Great! Now, Yusuf, please go to Mustafa’s stables down the street, hire his two best horses – I like the grey, remember? – and a mule.”

“ _Milor’?”_ squeaked the hapless servant.

“Yes, then go and ask Ali to make us half-a-dozen _msemen_ pancakes, with some meat in them this time, doesn’t matter what. Go on, hurry! You, Thomas, come with me!”

As they rushed off, Peter shouted over his shoulder, “we’re leaving in half-an-hour!”


	19. Freezing for the Sake of Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... what it says on the tin.

Dragging him by the hand, Peter pulled Thomas into his bedroom, opened a big cupboard, and took out several blankets and two woollen djellabas, floor-length and hooded, one white, one blue. He handed the former to Thomas, “Put that on, over what you’re wearing, (sweater, shirt, trousers), and grab hold of these.” He handed Thomas the pile of blankets, which he promptly dropped on the floor. Laughing like children, they scrabbled around, piling them up again in Thomas’ arms. Peter pulled the blue djellaba on and gave Thomas a peck on the lips, “Now, shoo a minute, I need to organise my things.” Thomas ambled out into the corridor, while much muttering and the occasional “damn!” could be heard coming from the studio.

Ten minutes later, Peter re-emerged, clutching an easel and a big flat leather bag, rather like a giant music-case. They assayed the stairs very carefully, Thomas not being able to see his feet at all. Yusuf was waiting for them.

“We are going out, _n’est-ce pas?_ ” he asked, looking very unhappy at the prospect. He was so wrapped up he looked more like the larva of some insect than a human being.

“Yes, Yusuf, out and up!” exclaimed Peter.

“But, Milor’, we will freeze of the _hypothermie!_ ”

“Nonsense, it’s only a little hill, not the Mountains of the Moon!” He paused, then, “Do you have our fodder?”

Ali will bring it _tout de suite_ ,” and indeed there he was, the marvellously round Ali making a rare appearance above ground. Wearing his trademark greasy apron, he waddled up the stairs from the basement kitchen, carrying a large basket and muttering to himself, “ _Les Anglais sont fous! … C’est une vraie torture …_ ” , etcetera.

“Yes, we are mad, and it won’t be torture, it’ll be grand!” retorted Peter. Thomas laughed. _He’s just a big kid! So am I, for that matter …_ “Where exactly are we going?” he asked.

“Jebel el Kebir and Jebel es Slokia are hills west of the city, less than ten miles away. It’s beautiful there, very quiet and empty, and I’ve had an idea.” He glanced heavenwards. “The light is wonderful today, and I don’t want to miss it.” He turned to Yusuf, “ … and our horses, and the mule?”

“ _Moustafa nous attend, Milor’_. ‘E is waiting outside.”

“Excellent!”

Mustafa was indeed in front of the Palais’ main door with the beasts. They loaded their supplies, the blankets, and Peter’s painting gear onto the mule, which seemed barely to notice the clutter. Yusuf somehow hoicked his swaddled self onto a little brown pony, and grabbed hold of the mule’s leading-rein, while Peter mounted a magnificent grey mare. Thomas just stood there, feeling completely hopeless. “Help,” he wailed. “Oh, sorry, Thomas, what an idiot I am! _Moustafa, aidez-le, s’il vous plait_.” With a nod to Thomas, the taciturn Mustafa knelt down, and made his hands into a stirrup. Thomas half stepped and was half lifted onto Peter’s horse. “I have never done this before, not once!” He murmured into Peter’s ear. “Well, you can just enjoy holding me round the waist for a while, hm?” came the answer. “That I can manage.” The warmth of Peter’s back was a great comfort, but _thank God he knows what he’s doing, I’m just hanging on for dear life!_

Thomas closed his eyes, and almost prayed.

At walking pace they made their way out of the south-western gate of the city, and then began to gallop down the aptly name Chemin de la Montagne, which, rather eerily, took them through a huge cemetery. Soon they were in rolling countryside: the air was cold, but dazzling sunshine more than made up for it. Thomas dared to open one eye, and soon began nearly to enjoy himself. Peter half turned in his saddle. ”How are you doing back there?” he shouted. “As l-long as I can ha-a-ang on to you, I’ll be f-fine!” stammered Thomas. “Another half-an-hour and we’ll be there!” _I can’t say as I’ll mind …_

They had to stop for a while and wait for Yusuf, the legs of whose horse were rather short, not forgetting that he had an ever-so-slightly-recalcitrant mule to deal with. He turned up a few minutes later, full of apology. “ _Mille pardons, messieu’_ , but Monseigneu’ Mulet ‘ere,” he gave a vicious tug on the beast’s rein, “decided he must _faire caca_ , and insisted on going off-road to, uh, perform, I think you would say.”

This reduced all three of them to hysterics, while the mule whickered ominously, showing its teeth.

They proceeded onward at a canter, and soon the road began to rise. For the last fifteen minutes they slowed to a walk, as the road became a mere track. The air grew colder, the sun, if anything, even brighter. It was so quiet, they could hear their own breathing. The mule was still nattering to itself.

As they reached the top of a long climb Peter suddenly drew rein. There was a great pile of rocks nearby, a couple of ancient ilex trees, and a little pool of water that glinted in the sun. The merest powdering of snow was scattered about. “This is the place,” exclaimed Peter. He dismounted and helped Thomas down. “How do you feel?” “A bit wobbly, but I’m fine … I could get used to that - will you teach me?”“But of course.” Peter kissed him. “Yusuf, could you hand me the easel and the big brown bag, please? I’ll leave you to deal with the rest.”

“ _Oui, Milor’._ ”

He turned back to Thomas. “Now, my love, this little excursion is all about you. We are here so that I can paint you.”

“Please let it not be on horseback!”

“Hah, don’t worry! … no, no … I want you and that fine beast in the picture, but with you standing on _terra firma_ , nothing fancy … let me see … “ He spoke to the horse, “Now, my beauty, _doucement …_ “. She regarded him out of her big brown eye and whinnied very softly. Peter slipped the mare’s reins loosely over a branch of one of the trees, and she nodded her head a couple of times, whinnied again, then was still. “Thomas, come and stand by her, and put your hand on her flank … a little nearer her head … that’s right, don’t be nervous, she’ll sense that … ex-cell-ent.”

The great grey mare was positively angelic. She stared at Thomas and he stared back. Both seemed to have mastered the art of stillness. Peter deftly set up his easel a few feet away and started fiddling with charcoal, paints and brushes. “This light is amazing,” he murmured. It was so clear that both Thomas and the horse seemed etched in the air, carved like the rocks behind them, slightly gleaming like the pool near their feet.

Again using a small canvas, Peter drew on it with charcoal, then started to fill in with colour: black, white, a little ochre, grey, and lots of blue: “Azurite and a bit of Lapis should do the trick … this light … whew!” he muttered. Meanwhile Yusuf was pottering about on the other side of the pool, filling two flasks with water from the pool while trying to stop the mule from nibbling at his clothes. He was directly in Thomas’ line of sight, and the beast’s antics nearly reduced the latter to helpless laughter – for the sake of art, he held it all in, but he was feeling the cold: after an hour of slowly freezing feet he murmured, “Can I have a break, please: I can’t feel my toes.”

“Sorry, darling, of course! Yusuf, what do we have in the way of drink?”

“Other than water from the pool, Milor’? Well, I will ‘ave to see what I can see … “ came the mysterious reply. He fished through the “picnic bag” and then cried " _V_ _oilà!",_ triumphantly waving a bottle of Ali’s notorious “hooch”: “ _C'est bien, messieu’_?” He even produced glasses. “That will do very well, Yusuf, you are a wonder as always,” replied Peter. “I’ll second that,” added Thomas, as Yusuf poured them all a large tot. “It is my job to be … uh, _extraordinaire.”_ He laughed, then raised his glass towards heaven, “May Allah forgive me,” he whispered, and downed the lot.

“You are, and so is this stuff,” said Thomas. “Does it have a name?”

“Ali call’s it _Dumu’ al-Shaytan_ , the tears of _le Diable._ ”

“I’ll drink to that, it’s certainly bringing my extremities back from the dead.”

It was a very successful day. Peter made three drawings as well as two oil sketches, and pronounced himself “most satisfied”. The _Dumu_ helped a lot, and Yusuf, having had three glasses’ worth, each accompanied by fervent apologies to the Divine, fell fast asleep after lunch, wrapped in several blankets and using the still-irascible, though now seated mule’s haunches as a pillow. The animal didn’t approve at all and attempted further inroads into Yusuf’s apparel, plus many a mulish, whinnied imprecation.

As the sun went down behind the hills the temperature fell quickly. Rousing Yusuf from his slumbers (“I dream of beautiful maidens dancing … ”, he mumbled), they gathered their stuff and wended their way home.

Still holding on tight to his lover, Thomas sighed happily: _God, how I love you!_


	20. Picking and Packing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... with a visit from Bertie and another old friend, things are really getting geared up for Peter's exhibition.

Spring came early to Tangiers. By late February there were already new flower buds on the lemon and fig trees in the courtyard, and the birds’ dawn chorus was renewed. While Peter painted busily, Thomas tried to keep up multiple correspondence. He had letters from Andrew (all was well with him and John Bretby, while “grizzle guts” had “buggered off to the Admiralty”); from Spratt (“a new heir is expected, Mr Barrow, Lady Mary is in an interesting condition”); from Lady Rosamund (“I can hardly wait to see more of Peter’s work”); and, most surprisingly, from the Dowager herself (“I knew I was right, and am enjoying occasional reminders directed at the rest of the family - and at Carson, of course … ”). There were also postcards from Peter Davies (now back on dry land and working at White’s Club in St James’s – “nice class of you know what here”) and from Agatha, now back in Connecticut (“ … missing Europe terribly, hope you are NOT behaving yourself … “).

When not busy with that, Thomas begged Peter to teach him to ride, soon acquiring a good “seat” – they made several more excursions into the country outside Tangiers, sometimes taking a tent and dragging that mule along behind them. Though his temper never improved, these little trips were idyllic, and full of long conversations and gentle love-making under the stars.

Bertie and Letitia arrived on the Saturday after Easter, April 2nd, coming by train as far as Nice, and then taking a long boat-trip across the Med: “No way will I ever do the Spanish trains again, not after the last time,” exclaimed Bertie. They arrived in time for a late supper, as Thomas had done so many months before, and all four of them sat in the courtyard till well after midnight, talking and laughing under a moon-lit sky. The next day Lettie insisted on seeing Peter’s paintings. He hadn’t let Thomas near the studio for several weeks, and it now became clear why. On a huge easel in the middle of the room was an enormous canvas, at least seven feet by four. It was a “worked up” version of the sketches and drawings of Thomas and the grey mare Peter had done in February. He had radically simplified it: gone were the rocks and the pool, there was just Thomas in three-quarter profile, dressed in the hooded white djellabah, his hand stroking the ever-patient horse, the two of them starkly outlined against the bright and cloudless winter sky. Even an old hand like Lettie was stricken silent. She just looked and looked, then at last murmured, “this’ll sell on sight.” Bertie said nothing, Thomas just held Peter’s hand so tightly it was almost painful and kissed him behind his ear. “There’s a little one like this too,” said Peter, “and some drawings which we could get framed up.” Distractedly Lettie muttered, “Yes, of course, whatever you want … this is amazing … “

 _I’m so proud of you I could burst!_ Then aloud Thomas remarked, “I believe Mr Fry might be moved to comment on the synthesis of realist and post-Impressionist elements in the composition.”

“What?” said Bertie, guffawing. Peter tapped Thomas on the end of his nose, “You are very bad, and I love you to bits!” “I need more coffee,” said Lettie.

In the end, forty-seven pictures, including twelve drawings and five oil sketches, were selected for the exhibition. After quite a bit of haggling, Thomas beat Lettie down to taking only a thirty-percent commission on any sales. “Only because it’s for you boys!” she growled. “You know perfectly well you’re going to clean up on this,” retorted Thomas. “I’m going to ask an absolute bomb for the big one,” she replied. She turned to Peter, “Does it have a title?” “Oh yes, 'The Pale Horseman'.” Thomas was very nearly embarrassed.

It was decided that he would go to England for the exhibition. Peter had no desire to do so: “I have absolutely no wish to be within a hundred miles of London, nor any of my old acquaintance, nor to give my darling mother even the merest scintilla of an opportunity of being driven the length of England to harangue me about my “duty”. Even after all these years, I just know she would!” “But we’ll have The Pale Horseman in person, won’t we?” added Lettie, looking delighted at the prospect.

That settled, they then had a wonderful few days. Thomas and Bertie went with Lettie to the souk, Yusuf dutifully in tow, and there were indeed wonderful theatricalities with sellers of saffron, carpets, and Turkish Delight, who were astonished at Lettie’s lack of inhibition and ability to yell, and duly crumbled under Yusuf’s soft-spoken interventions in their own tongue, despite their many mutterings about “ _étrangers_ ” and “loose women”. She got three-quarters off everything!

May was a frenzy of packing, mostly done by Thomas and Yusuf. Peter worried constantly about the pictures they’d selected, whether they’d survive the journey, whether they were really any good, and so on. Thomas had to do a lot of soothing of the artistic temperament, but by now he was pretty experienced in Peter’s ways. Saturday, May 21st was chosen for departure day. Yusuf visited Mustafa’s stables again, and hired three mule-carts, one of course pulled by that beast, who remembered him at once, down to trying to take a bite out of his backside. Thomas and Peter made a quiet, slightly tearful farewell. “God, I’ll miss you!” “I’ll be counting the days”, answered Thomas, “and every day I’ll love you more.”

From transporting necessity, Thomas did make the “horrible” train journey through Spain and France, then the ferry to Dover, and yet another train to Victoria. Other than the expected argy-bargy at the Gibraltar-Spain border, it was an uneventful trip, though even in first-class (Peter had insisted), it was a hot and sweaty one. Lettie and Hettie were both at Victoria to meet him and had a van and porters at hand to deal with the numerous large packing-cases. It was cocktail hour on Thursday, May 26th, but poor Thomas was too exhausted even to dream of gin-and-tonic. “I’m going to my hotel to have a bath, eat a ham sandwich (which I have not tasted for nearly a year), drink a gallon of tea and go to bed. I’ll see you at the gallery in the morning.” “Right-o,” replied Lettie, “about eleven? There will be coffee … and buns.” “Sounds great.”

Thomas collapsed into a taxi. “Claridges,” he muttered to the driver, and that was that.


	21. Ready, steady, go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... preparations for the "big day".

London on a beautiful day in late May is a glorious place to be. Thomas, having slept the sleep of the righteous (!), emerged at a little after ten, and still a little dazed, into the bright sunshine beating down on Mayfair.

_Well, that was amusing, the look on the hotel manager’s face when he heard my Stockport accent – would’ve curdled clotted cream, silly old goat! And the change on his snooty visage when I mentioned Peter’s title – gaaa, I’d forgotten what a funny place England is …_

It was a good half-hour walk to the gallery, and he enjoyed every minute of it. When he arrived, Het and Let were already hard at work in the now empty space. Most of the walls were painted white, but Hettie had had the brilliant idea of putting up a large red velvet cloth, loosely draped floor-to-ceiling, in front of which “The Pale Horseman” would be displayed, unframed. The similar small version and several related drawings would hang nearby. “Half the queer art-fanciers in London’ll be fighting over these!” exclaimed Hettie. “Hah!” exclaimed Thomas. “Can they do that? Don’t you fix all prices beforehand?” “Officially, yes, but … “ said Hettie with a wink. “People squabbled like mad over Laura Knight and Duncan Grant, so they’ll certainly fight over Peter Pelham!” said Lettie, “ and what about the self-portrait, and the one of you and Yusuf playing chess, and the women in the market, and, and … ? They’ll be red dots on twenty of these by the end of the private view, or my name’s not Letitia Fortescue!”

And so it proved. Thomas had plenty of time to himself, and certainly did quite a lot of “swanning about town”. He had dinner one evening with Rosamund Painswick, which most certainly did send her entire establishment into meltdown. Mead was still calmly in charge, but Andrew Simmons, now head footman, nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks in the Library at the sight of him. The other guests were Bertie, Roger Fry, who boomed a lot, and none another than Virginia Woolf, who was rather languid and withdrawn: conversation was not of the easiest. The new footman, one Frederick Betterton, was distinctly cutesie, and spent most of “service” making eyes at Thomas across the dining-table. _I’ll have a word, I think_. Just before brandy and cigars he beckoned to Andrew: “D’you think you could get young Freddy to stop making doe-eyes at the guests? He’ll get ‘isself sacked, if Mead notices …” “Oh Gawd,” said Andrew, "not again. I’ll ‘ave ter give ‘im a smack.” “Careful, he might like it! How’s John?” “Lovely, as always.” A pause. “Are yer ‘appy, Mr Barrow” “Very, ta.” He beamed, “Tha’s grand!” “Suddenly a voice came across the room, “Come along Thomas,” called Bertie, “Mr Fry wants to talk Art to you.” “Oops, better go. Good to see you.” With a wink, he was gone.

Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell invited him to a cocktail party, at which, amongst other artistic luminaries, he again met More Adey, formerly of the "Burlington" magazine and last lover of Robbie Ross, Oscar Wilde’s “real love”. Thomas was wearing that cravat pin, which was much remarked upon, and the two of them talked about the faithful Robbie for hours. _Now, that was an honour, getting to know that man_, thought Thomas, as he slowly walked back to Claridge’s, _A good person, a very clever person, but I have never seen eyes so full of sadness!_

Thomas also spent time scouring galleries and antique shops for a present for Peter, not an easy task. At last, wandering about the little streets and alleyways behind Brooke Street in Mayfair, he spied a display of old jewellery in the dusty window of somewhere that called itself “Antichità del Vecchio Mondo” _… of the old world, eh, let’s see …_ He entered, causing a little bell above the door to ring. A little man emerged, about fifty, thin, slightly bent, wearing small round glasses and enveloped in an aura of dust and general yellowing. “ _Si, signore_. How may I ‘elp you?”

“I saw the pad of rings in the window. May I look at them.”

“But of course, signore.” He lifted them carefully onto the counter between them. “These are grand tour rings, eighteenth, nineteenth century.”

“From Italy?”

“Si, signore. The bottom row, the intaglios, are copies of ancient examples.”

“And this one in the second row?”

“The _pietradura_ one, si, signore. It is set in ‘igh carat gold, Venetian I believe, about 1780: the Birds of Pliny … a symbol of _fedeltà_.”

“Faithfulness? Perfect. I’ll take it.”

After a decent bit of haggling, Thomas was as satisfied with the price as with the object’s subject. He put it in his pocket, and squeezed the little box it was in all the way back to the hotel.

When Thomas went down to breakfast on the day before the private view, there was a message for him from Lettie at the hotel’s reception: “Come asap, we need you. L” Swallowing a quick cup of tea and two rounds of toast, he jumped into a taxi. Ten minutes later, he was there. Of neither Let nor Het was there the least sign. “He-llo!” he called. _That’s odd, where can they be?_ He made his way to the back office. There was Lettie sitting at a desk piled up with papers, her head in her hands, sobbing. Het stood by her, a hand on her shoulder, looking bereft. Exchanging a look with the latter, who pursed her lips and shook her head rather forlornly, he asked, “How may I help you, ladies?” Hettie gave Lettie a nudge, “Let, my love, we have a visitor … salvation is at hand.” Lettie raised her head wearily, “Oh, Thomas bless you for coming. I haven’t slept a wink. “ “Why not, whassup?” “It’s the exhibition, the hang. It’s all wrong, aaaaah! … “ she slumped back down onto the desk, and more sobs ensued. Hettie very quietly moved close to Thomas and whispered in his ear, “She always gets like this before we open. Don’t worry, have a look round, perhaps make the odd suggestion or two, it’ll be fine. I’ll go and make some coffee.”

Thomas went and patted Lettie on the shoulder, hauled her out of her chair, and they went back to the gallery. “I think it looks bloody marvellous”, he exclaimed. “Oh, but no,” came the reply, “the lights, the balance, I mean, look at that one,” said Lettie, pointing at a large and very beautiful desert mountain landscape, “Doesn’t it kill the ones on either side.” Thomas glanced around, “W-wuh … well, what about swapping those two with two similar sized ones in black frames? These two charcoal drawings maybe?” “Oh, that’s brilliant, thank you!” She pointed across the room. “Did you see we’d hung Peter’s self-portrait next to a head-and-shoulders he did of you. I think he’d approve, don’t you?” “Well, I certainly do – God, he’s beautiful!”

Another ten minutes of this, and Letitia’s inner harmony was fully restored. Coffee and more buns also helped.

At last “the day” dawned, and it was another fabulous sunny one. Having failed to get a line on two previous attempts, Thomas was at last able to speak to Le Vieux Palais by telephone after breakfast. There was one phone in the whole place, in a curious cubby-hole next to the basement kitchen that Yusuf called his office, but was really where he generally took his afternoon nap. The line was not good, but Thomas was able to convey to Peter all the excitement and anticipation, and, more importantly, how much he loved him. “You, too, my darling … _crrrk, crackle, crackle_ … see you very soon [kiss noises various] … bye, now, I love you … _click, whirr_ … “

By mid-afternoon it was really hot, and Thomas, who’d been feeding the ducks in St James’ Park, retreated back to Claridge’s for a large tea ( _Gawd knows when I’ll get dinner tonight!_ ) and a further long soak in the bath. He had acquired another linen suit in Tangiers, in écru, and added to it a round-collared open-neck white cotton shirt with just a hint of self-coloured embroidery – exotic, but not over the top. He wore pale brown loafers, no socks. He took particular care over his shaving, his hair, and his cologne, and took a longer-than-usual look at himself in the bathroom mirror. _You look fabulous, luv!_ He blew his reflection a kiss, put on a pair of dark glasses, and off he went.

He arrived at the Avanti only ten minutes after the view opened, but it was crammed to the gunnels. He fought his way past umpteen milling people, feeling most desirous of one of Lettie’s lethal cocktails. Het was serving as usual, and handed him a particularly evil-looking green one, “Ere’s mud in yer eye!” she muttered. It was total mayhem, lots of gesticulation, loud voices braying forth opinions, sensible and stupid, and Thomas was glad to see that red dots already adorned the bottom right-hand corners of several pictures, including “The Pale Horseman”. That caused him a real pang, so he went and stood by it, looking at it quietly, recalling that lovely, chilly day on the Jebel es Slokia, thinking about Peter. Next to him was a group of people centred on Roger Fry, who was indeed booming about “post-Impressionist elements”. _I’ll add ‘fortune teller' to my curriculum vitae._

The dark glasses were an excellent idea: the only guests who recognised him were Rosamund and Bertie; even Duncan Grant passed him by with barely a glance, which, considering his wife Vanessa Bell was on his arm, was probably just as well. For once, Thomas was happy merely to stand and observe. _What a world this is!_ He suddenly noticed More Adey, also standing alone, looking at the two portraits of him and Peter. He went over to him and took off his glasses for a moment. “Mr Adey, I believe.” ”Ah, Mr Barrow, what a pleasure!” He indicated the pictures, “These are just wonderful!” “I’ll tell Peter you like them. He will be so pleased!” Adey looked at him rather quizzically, then very quietly asked, “Would I be right in thinking you are a very lucky, very happy man?” “Yes.” For a moment Adey looked immensely sorrowful. He put a hand on Thomas’ arm, “Enjoy it, young Thomas, enjoy it while you may … “ He paused, pursed his lips, sighed, and then looked at Thomas very intently, “Now tell me about the circumstances of Peter painting these.” Again they had to be dragged apart after the private view had ended. More had a brief word with Hettie as he was leaving, and as she came back from seeing him out she said to Thomas, “Well, that makes twenty three – he’s just bought your portraits, both of them.“ “That’s wonderful! I hardly dare ask: who bought “The Horseman”?” “I am under strict instructions to tell no-one, especially not you.” She turned to Hettie, who was staggering towards the kitchen with a tray full of glasses, “No, for once leave it all, love. I’m taking you and Thomas out to dinner.”


	22. Another Unexpected Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... a rather pleasant blast from the past.

Thomas offered to help out more formally at the gallery the next day, when _hoi polloi_ were to be admitted. They arrived in swarms: he was very popular with visitors for the “do tell me more about this one” type of enquiry, and also proved a dab hand at dealing with potential buyers who tried to undercut Lettie’s pricing – a muttered "there’s a lot of interest in this one” usually did the trick. By the end of the day he was completely whacked – “How you girls do this for weeks at a time, I shall never know!” “Well”, replied Hettie, “it pays the bills, and sometimes the people are nice!” She looked at him strangely, and fluttered her eyelashes.” “Hah! I think I need a pint. Is there a decent pub round here?” “Decent beer, or decent people?” yelled Lettie from the back kitchen. “Both would be nice!” “How about the 'Chelsea Potter'?” interjected Hettie, ”’snot far away.” “Fine!” said Lettie, emerging slightly pink-faced. Shall we?” They did, drank some good beer, ate pie and chips, and had a decently raucous evening.

The following day, being the day of rest, Thomas did just that: he rose late, breakfasted slowly, went for a stroll in Grosvenor Square (noticing at least one man “on the look out” there – _posh cock ‘ere, mate_ ), then went back for a bit of lunch and a nap. Bertie had invited him for supper, so he thought _I’d better ‘ave some tea, I remember his g‘n’ts of old!_ Eschewing the Foyer with all its coming-and-goings, he took himself to the Library, which was blissfully quiet. A few tables were laid, but only one was occupied … by a strangely familiar figure, with her back turned to him. Feeling both bold and curious he went up to the lady’s table, and, yes, it was the Dowager Countess of Grantham, just about to pour.

“Good afternoon Your Ladyship, what a, er, lovely surprise!”

“Good Heavens, the prodigal of Downton, Mr Thomas Barrow, as I live and breathe, and the last time I checked I was doing both!” She gestured at the chair opposite. “Sit, please sit!”

“Thank you, M’lady.”

A little silence fell. She looked at him from under her eyebrows.

“Well man, what?”

“Er, what … what, ma'am?”

“Hah, I can tell you want to ask me something … well, go on, then, ask … I don’t bite … much!”

“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t, but … what brings you to London, ma’am?”

“Indeed you shouldn’t, most remiss to ask a lady her business!” She pouted, “but I will if you will!”

“Oh, I am here to help organise an exhibition of the work of Peter Pelham. I work for him now, you know, in Tangiers.”

“Oh, I know ALL about that, Spratt is an excellent conduit. Is the “work” agreeable?”

“Er, yes, very.” Thomas blushed just a little.

A waitress buzzed in and took Thomas’s order.

Her Ladyship was still regarding Thomas narrowly. “I see, so I did do you a good turn, eh?”

“Yes, ma’am, I will always be grateful.”

“No need! I just thought the whole business perfectly idiotic. Mr Kent is still there, of course, preening himself in every passing mirror, and they found a new boy, a Londoner called Andrew, to slot in between him and that great beanpole Alfred – the nephew of my daughter-in-law’s detestable lady’s maid.”

“Ah, the delightful Miss O’Brien.”

“I never understood why Cora took her on. She’s good at her work, and no mistake, but has a face carved out of bile and stinks of cigarettes – ugh!”

“I would not insult you, M’Lady, by telling you what I think of her!”

“That bad, was it? Well, well, you’re much better off where you are now, I think. I went to Tangiers once, years ago. My brother was a diplomat in Lisbon, and I visited him there in … ’64, I think it was. We went on a little cruise on a friend’s yacht: Faro, Gib, Tangiers, The Canaries, it was lovely. In Tangiers I remember borrowing a servant from the British Legation and going to the market – what is it called?”

“The souk, ma’am.”

“Yes, that’s it. I was determined to buy some really beautiful silk and take it home to have a dress made. I found the most beautiful cloth, blue with a purple thread in it … and some green… and red. It was like a peacock’s tail.” Her expression became almost dreamy, “I can see it now.”

“You must have looked very beautiful in it, ma’am.”

“You, young man, are very cheeky, but complimenting an old woman is rarely a mistake!”

Thomas’s tea arrived.

“Now tell me, everything, Mr Barrow, and I mean everything. I do not shock easily!”

So he did, though not graphically: the Marquess, the house, the “set up”, everything.

“He is a great talent, I am told!”

“A very great one, I think, but then I would! … Oh ... " Thomas blushed some more.

“A-hah, and where is this exhibition?”

“The Avanti Gallery, just off Sloane Square.”

“New to me, how interesting … I remember the Grafton Gallery Exhibitions before the war, they were wonderful. I have an Augustus John in the Dower House. Did you know that?”

“No, ma’am, I did not.”

“Surprised I’m interested, eh?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes you are! Just because we have that Mantegna (which is very likely no such thing) at Downton, you think I can’t abide a painting unless the artist is at least as dead as Pontius Pilate. Now go on, eat your tea!”

She positively smirked at him over the rim of her teacup.

Her Ladyship was in London “on some private business”, which was why she was staying neither at Grantham House nor with her daughter.

“I believe you have met her.”

“Yes, ma’am, through Bertie Pelham, Peter’s cousin.”

“The man who hired you?”

“Yes, M’Lady.”

“Should you see her while you’re in town, please don’t tell her you’ve seen me. She’ll only make a fuss.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“That would be as much of a departure for you as it would be for me, but still … “

She raised an eyebrow, and smiled.

“On my honour as a …”

“Gentleman? Yes, exactly.”

_I believe that’s known as “passing muster”._

Thomas was very careful not to mention that little encounter at Bertie’s later, not least since Rosamund was, naturally, there. She herself seemed on the verge of telling everybody something terribly important, but never got round to it. She was positively brimming over with excitement about the exhibition: “I have bought, of course, and not just one.” She and Bertie were both very moved at Thomas’ account of his life with Peter: “At least here I can tell you everything.”

The next day, Monday, was due to be Thomas’s last in London: he was departing on a train in the late afternoon, and, unencumbered by all those packing cases, was copying the route Bertie and Lettie had taken that spring: Calais-Paris-Nice-boat. He’d be in Tangiers by the 17th. In the light of this, he thought he’d take a last look at the exhibition. Arriving at the gallery at about eleven, he was amazed to see the elderly figure of the Dowager bent over Letitia’s desk, clearly signing a cheque. “Goodness me, Mr Barrow, you must be following me around? Should I be worried? … Yes, of course I’ve bought one of the Marquess’s pictures. He’s very good.”

“Might I ask which one, M’Lady?”

“Why not? ‘The Market Women’. You see it over there?” She pointed to it on the wall. “There is even a bolt of brilliant blue-green cloth hanging up in the background. How could I resist? And anyway, I thought Mr John might be feeling rather lonely … “

She smiled her most meaningful smile.

“Miss Fortescue, might I ask you to order me a taxi, please?”

“Of course, Your Ladyship.” Hettie picked up the phone and dialled.

“Could you please arrange to have the picture sent to me after the exhibition has closed? You have the address? The Dower House, Downton, North Yorkshire.”

“All duly noted, ma’am.”

“Oh, and the framing, could you organise that for me, it would be so much better done here in London? What do you think? Gilt, about two inches wide, single reeding? Yes, I think that’ll look very good, don’t you?” Lettie scribbled frantically.

She stood in front of the picture with her head on one side. “A companion for Mr John,” she murmured. “Excellent!”

She walked over to “The Pale Horseman”. “Extraordinary!” she breathed. “Mind you, you’d need a lot of wall for that!” She waved at it with her stick. “It’s a very good likeness of you, Mr Barrow. Very!”

A taxi drew up outside the gallery.

“Thank you, Miss Fortescue. Mr Barrow, we may never meet again. Farewell and good luck to you, young man!”

Thomas bowed and kissed her hand.

He held the door open for her. She nodded to him and walked slowly away, leaning a little on her trusty cane.

_They don’t make ‘em like that any more!_


	23. Success and disaster

After many hugs and promises to visit again soon, Thomas made his farewells to Let and Het, whizzed back to Claridge’s in yet another taxi, had a bite of lunch, checked he’d packed everything, and was off to Victoria. The whole journey home went like clockwork, and the boat-crossing of the Mediterranean was perfect. _I am a lucky bastard and no mistake!_ They docked at Tangiers on Friday, June 17th, and there was the ever-faithful Yusuf to meet him, but there also was Peter himself, who positively threw himself at Thomas, hugging and kissing him on the quayside (and to hell with what anyone thought!). He loved the ring with the doves, and swore he'd never take it off - he never did.

The exhibition only lasted three weeks, but another very crackly phone-call came through on the evening of July 2nd: “This is Lettie, Thomas. Tell Peter we’ve sold everything except two small paintings, and one of the drawings. I’ll arrange fund transfer to Peter’s Coutts account and the shipping of the ‘remains’ on Monday - should take about two weeks. Best exhibition ever! Lots of love to you both, bye!”

There had also been very good publicity: Fry wrote a long piece in The Times, describing Peter’s “unique stylistic fusion and remarkable colouristic subtlety”, and there were also accolades from the press in Paris, Milan, Berlin and New York.

*****

Suddenly, Peter was famous, which of course had its price: more work and yet more. A big gallery in Paris wanted twenty pictures for a winter exhibition, and in spring 1922 he was on show in both Berlin and New York simultaneously; 1923: Milan, Geneva; 1924: Tokyo, Brussels; 1925: London. Though it was tiring and sometimes worse, Peter and Thomas were having the time of their lives. To Paris he did go (“I want to see my old teacher again before it’s too late”) and he also accompanied Thomas to the beginning of the New York exhibition and the end of the Berlin one, as well as to the Italian and Swiss ones. They made holidays of each trip, and when they were home always found time to make many little excursions outside the city – that “time to do nothing” that Peter always insisted upon. Did it take a toll on “them”? No: Thomas lost his melancholy entirely, and Peter felt no more need for excess alcohol nor drug-fuelled hibernations. Indeed, other than being totally manic, those years were wonderful for them both. Love is a great healer, a great binder, a great progenitor. Peter never grew tired of painting Thomas, Thomas never grew tired of loving Peter. True love never grows tired.

*****

1925, Tuesday, July 29th

Thomas awoke unusually early, and turned to look at Peter in the morning sunshine.

_Beautiful, my beautiful man …_

He got out of bed very softly. Peter did not stir.

It was already warm. Thomas put on a pair of pyjama trousers and his white cotton robe, and went in search of coffee and breakfast, then took a bath and got dressed. Peter was still dozing, but as Thomas walked through their bedroom he stirred and opened an eye.

“Wha’ time izzit?” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Later than you think … the church has just struck half-past nine.”

“Tha's early? Wher’ you goin’?”

“I have letters to post. I won’t be gone long.” He knelt on the bed and turned Peter over, then gave him a very long, slow, “good morning” kiss. “I love you so much.” Peter reached his hands behind Thomas’ neck, and said “You too, my darling” – then he yawned, a very long yawn. Thomas stood up, laughing softly. “I’ll get Yusuf to put some more coffee on. See you in a minute.”

Thomas had to queue at the post office. There was a parcel to post, a birthday present for Lettie. It was nearly an hour before he was back, to be greeted by Yusuf in floods of tears.

“ _Non, m’sieu’_ , do not go up!”

“What is it? What, man?”

“ _Milor’ …. Ohhh, Milor’_ … _!_ ”

Forcing his way past the sobbing servant, Thomas rushed up the stairs two at a time. “Peter! Peter, where are you?” No answer. He was not in their bed, nor the bathroom. _The studio?!_

He burst through the door.

Yes, there was Peter lying motionless on the floor surrounded by scattered brushes and paints, a new sketch just begun on the easel. “Oh, my God!”

Thomas knelt by his side, and grabbed his wrist.

There was, just, a pulse.

“Yusuf!” he yelled, “Yusuf, _un médecin, vite!_ ”

Poor Yusuf appeared at the doorway then fled away.

Peter stirred. “Thomas?”

“I’m here, my darling.”

Peter raised a hand towards Thomas’ face, which was streaming with tears.

“My lovely Th … “ They looked into each other’s eyes. “Lovely … “

Then he fell back and was still.

“Nooooooooooo! Haaaaaaaaah! Huuh, huh, hu hu, huuuh-hu, hu … ”

Blackness.

Peter Pelham, 6th Marquess of Hexham

Born 7th May 1891

Died 29th July 1925


	24. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in the darkness

Cause of death: _aneurysme intracraniale_ / brain aneurysm

Thomas sat and stared at the certificate. Just a piece of paper, but again the tears came.

In keeping with local custom, Peter’s body had been cremated within twenty-four hours of his death. He was now “sitting” in an urn on a shelf in the studio. Nothing else was left, but memory, and the love that has no-one to love: grief.

It was now Wednesday, 6th August, six o’clock in the evening. The ferry from Gibraltar would arrive in two hours, bringing Bertie and the Pelham family solicitor. Thomas felt like a dead man walking, as he had done for the last week. As a dead man walking, he had tried to sort papers, to sort pictures, to make some order, but everywhere there were ghosts, words, whispers, still faint scents, a hair, a piece of clothing, a scribbled note, the chewed end of a pencil … and pictures, all the pictures, self-portraits, pictures of Thomas, of them together … as they never would be again. _Never, whatever that damned Catholic God says, never!_ Thomas wept again, uncontrollably. At least he could do that.

Yusuf was an angel to him, so careful, so gentle. Thomas could barely eat or drink. Yusuf would bathe and dress him like a child, singing little songs to him quietly, trying to tempt him with delicacies from Ali’s kitchen. Nor could Thomas sleep, or only fitfully. The scene in the Studio played over and over in his head, and he dreamed of Peter as a skeleton laughing, a rotting corpse reaching out its hand to him, a ghost in his mind, waking suddenly in the darkness of the night to the softness of a ghost’s voice whispering to him. Yusuf had made up a little cot at one end of the bedroom, and, like a faithful dog, kept watch over Thomas sleeping or waking, holding him in his nightmares and his weeping.

He came to him now as he read that damned piece of paper over and over.

“M’sieu’ Thomas, please, your friend M’sieu Berti is coming soon, I will wash and dress you. Ali is preparing food. Please, come.”

He took Thomas to the big bathroom, removed the night-clothes he was still wearing, laid him down in the cool water, and washed him like a baby. He washed his hair and combed it, patted his body dry. Thomas shivered a little, even though it was a warm evening. Yusuf dressed him Western-style in that écru linen suit that was a favourite, a white cotton shirt, and the little leather slippers. Thomas said nothing, just stared at nothing, but suddenly, when Yusuf was putting on his jacket , he murmured, “still you are so kind to me.”

“ _Mais, bien sûr_ , M’sieu’ Thomas, as always _je fais mon métier_ : it is my job.”

“You are kind … Peter was kind … I was shown how to be kind … “ He put his face into his hands and wept.

Yusuf stood and waited for Thomas’ sobbing to subside. “ _Alors, M’sieu’_ , come and sit in the courtyard. I have lit the lamps. They will be here soon. I must go to meet them, to say _bienvenus._ ”

“Yes, you must say such things for me. Nothing is welcome any more.”

They walked slowly downstairs, Yusuf holding Thomas by the arm, lest he fall.

He sat him down at the table by the big fig tree. “I’ll bring you some apple tea with honey. _Ça va?_ ”

“Thank you, yes. What is Ali going to try to tempt me with tonight?”

“I thought maybe the Lamb Tagine.”

“Peter’s favourite? … Yes … maybe … that was our first dinner together.”

“I remember, M’sieu’ … “

“So do I …” Thomas held out a hand, but then just put it to his face and sobbed. No tears came.

An hour later Thomas was roused from dark thoughts by quiet voices near the house door. _I must buck up, not be so bloody useless!_

“ _Venez, messieu’,_ this way, please.”

Thomas sat up in the chair as the footsteps approached, and there was Bertie in the lamplight, his sweet face a picture of distress.

Thomas stood up as his friend ran forward.

“Oh, my dear chap,” said Bertie, “dear, dear Thomas … ohhh … ” He kissed Thomas on the cheek. Thomas could say nothing, but wept again.

Bertie turned to a tall, grey-haired man of about fifty, who was standing a few feet behind him, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Oh, I am sorry! Thomas, this is Mr Bretherton, Edward Bretherton, our family solicitor.”

“Good evening, sir. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“It’s all right, Thomas, Mr Bretherton is well apprised of the situation.”

Thomas broke away from Bertie’s embrace and wiped his hands across his eyes. “Is he now?” he said vehemently. “When will the police arrive? The bailiffs?”

“It is nothing like that, sir,” replied Bretherton stiffly. “Here you are beyond the jurisdiction of English law … and its peculiar obsessions … “ he added with the quirk of an eyebrow.

“Thomas, may we sit down, please?” said Bertie.

“Yes, of course. My apologies. Mr Bretherton.”

“None needed, sir.”

They sat at the table. Yusuf, with his usual immaculate timing, produced a chilled bottle of white wine, and poured three glasses.

Bertie spoke, “You were surprised when I phoned to say I was bringing Bretherton with me, but there is good reason. When you were in London for, er, for Peter’s first exhibition in 1921, Peter took advantage of your absence (Thomas looked surprised for a moment, but Bertie raised a hand to quieten him) to make a will, which has been proven under English and Moroccan law. Is that not correct, Bretherton?”

“Indeed it is, M’Lord.”

Thomas twitched, but said nothing.

“Bertie continued: “ I thought it best you hear it from the lips of a lawyer, or you might find it hard to credit.”

“It is indeed a most singular document,” continued Bretherton a little ponderously, “containing unprecedented provisions. That said, it is utterly legal and watertight, under any jurisdiction. Shall I read it?”

“Please do,” said Bertie. Thomas remained silent.

**“The Last Will and testament of Peter Henry Octavius Pelham, Sixth Marquess of Hexham, dated the Twenty-Eighth Day of June in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Twenty one. …** Now, the first section deals with the inalienable rights of Inheritance appertaining to the Castle and Estate of Brancaster in the County of Northumberland, held in Entail to the Heirs Male of the Body. This does not concern you, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas nodded.

“However, the second section, under bequests, does." He cleared his throat.

**“I hereby bequeath wholly, inalienably, and for the term of his natural life, to the Friend and Companion of My Life, Mr Thomas Barrow, of Stockport in the County of Lancashire, formerly of Downton Abbey in the North Riding of Yorkshire, the house known as Le Vieux Palais in the City of Tangiers, Kingdom of Morocco, its Contents, Fixtures and Fittings, free of any burden of debt, rent, or mortgage; furthermore, I bequeath to him, also free of any debt, rent, or mortgage, the dwelling known as the Dower House in the settlement of Brancaster in the County of Northumberland, along with its Outhouses, Grounds, rights of Access, Ingress, and Egress, its Contents, Fixtures and Fittings, it being within my power so to do, notwithstanding the aforesaid inalienable rights of the heirs male of my body concerning the estate of Brancaster in the County of Northumberland as set out above, the said property known as the Dower House having formerly been owned by the mother of my father in her own right, and by her bequeathed directly to me at her death; furthermore, I bequeath to the afore-mentioned Mr Thomas Barrow all rights of sale, distribution and copyrighting of all my works of art on canvas, paper or any other medium, insofar as this does not conflict with rights of ownership of works belonging to others as of the date of this testament; all rights of reproduction of all my works of art, whether owned by him or not, shall be vested in the said Thomas Barrow for fifty years from the date of my death.**

**[signed] Peter Henry Octavius Pelham, Tangiers, 28th June 1921"**

A silence fell. Bertie took a sip of wine.

“I may add,” said Bretherton, “that this will was made at the British Legation here, drawn up by their very skilful lawyers, and witnessed by the First and Second Secretaries. It is completely watertight and unchallengeable.”

Another silence fell. Then Thomas whispered, “So I own all this … and I have … nothing.” He put a hand to his face, and sobbed for a little while.

Thomas “bucked up”. “Thank you, Mr Bretherton. Yusuf, is dinner ready?”

“ _Oui, m’sieu._ I bring it at once.” He slipped away, and returned quickly, bearing all the necessary pots, plates and implements.

“Eat, gentlemen,” said Thomas. “Ali is a very good cook. This was Peter’s favourite … “ his voice shook a little, “ … and became mine.”

They ate and drank almost in silence. Thomas ate a little, drank a little, said almost nothing. Bretherton was naturally taciturn, and Bertie was a sensitive soul: attempts at jollity would have been seriously out of place, so he made none.

Thomas’s silence did not betoken emptiness. After Yusuf had shown his guests to their rooms, he beckoned to him to come and sit beside him at the table. Long into the night they talked. What was said was a great balm to Thomas, a first turn to the wheel of his grieving.


	25. At last, comes around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, and a future ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is alone, and lonely, but ... be prepared for someone nearly all of us know and love already.
> 
> I wrote the last four chapters in a day, so apologies for any anomalies, and very many thanks to all those of you who've stuck with me, and for your many kind comments!

Bertie and Bretherton stayed till Saturday. Sometimes Thomas was in evidence, sometimes not. Yusuf looked after them brilliantly, showed them the sights (“We must leave Thomas be,” commented Bertie. “ _Oui, M’sieu Berti_ , he needs _tranquillité_ , much peace and quiet.”)

On the Friday evening Thomas “bucked up” again. Ali excelled himself with a stuffed roast wild duck for each of them, a very fancy couscous, and a very exotic _macédoine_ , with fresh pineapple, something only Thomas had ever eaten before. Even he seemed to enjoy his meal, though now and then he would fall silent and seem suddenly far, far away.

Their visitors having left on the Saturday morning, Thomas asked Ali and Yusuf for a conference. They all sat by the fig tree, drank apple tea, and Thomas and Ali smoked, a lot. This went on all afternoon, interrupted by Ali diving into his basement kingdom to produce various culinary delights. Thomas explained that he had barely slept since the will had been read to him, but not because of nightmares, because of thinking.

“This house is now mine, but I cannot stay here, the ghosts are too strong, the memory too painful. I must go back to England. Will you come with me?”

“ _Oui, M’sieu’_ , I will come”, said Yusuf at once.

“ _Ouf,_ ” said Ali. “ _C’est difficile_. I must think, _m’sieu’_.”

“Of course, Ali, but _pas trop long_ , hm? One moon’s waxing and waning, _c'est assez?_ ”

“ _Oui, M’sieu’_ , quite enough. _Certainement, uh, merci._ ” They shook hands on it.

Those twenty-nine days were filled with activity for Thomas. _Being busy will keep me sane_. Every now and again, little things would “catch” him: finding a particular shirt while sorting Peter’s clothes, the scent of a bar of soap, a half-used tube of paint stuck in an old mug in the Studio: _Ah yes, that blue!_ Little by little, he sorted out the house, the memories, his thoughts, his tears, but still sometimes collapsed in a heap of sobs, thinking _what the hell am I doing?_

Nonetheless, telegrams flew to Lettie, to Bertie, to Bretherton, phone-calls were made to international packers and removers, and feelers were put out about Le Vieux Palais itself. The latter produced interest in double-quick time. One day the trilling phone in Yusuf’s cubby-hole announced a call from the Second Secretary at the American Legation: was Mr Barrow really moving out? Might he sell? Or rent? They had had an offer from an extremely wealthy philanthropist, one Cornelius Vanderhoven (the Second), who was wanting to set up an American College in the city, and was prepared to take their say-so as to a building’s suitability. _Why the hell not, they can only say “no”?_

Well, they didn’t. Diplomats came, diplomats went, architects ditto, academics also, lawyers likewise (Thomas wisely employing some from the British Legation). Most importantly: Peter’s studio, as a structure, had to remain, and would be converted into a lecture hall, named the Hexham Lecture Theatre - agreed; the Vanderhoven American College would, in the first instance, rent the building from Thomas for a period of ten years, with an option to buy thereafter - agreed ( _suits me fine – they’re pouring money into my account whatever happens-_ he thought the rent his lawyers asked was astronomical, but apparently Mr Vanderhoven didn’t bat an eyelid ). It eventually transpired they were trying to acquire most of the other side of the street as well.

One month later, Ali came to Thomas one morning looking a little glum. He was most grateful to M’sieu’ Thomas for his kind offer, but … he would stay where he was, or almost. It had been a long-held dream of his to open a little restaurant of his own in the city, and ideal premises had just become available a few streets away. “Please do not be angry, M’sieu … _c’est mon rêve_ … “

“Angry, of course not, _pas du tout_. I shall miss _votre sorcellerie_ , your wizardry … and I insist on paying the first three months’ rent on your new place … no refusals accepted.”

Ali was astounded. He pottered back to the kitchen, again muttering, “ _Les Anglais sont fous … mais ils sont aussi des anges._ ”

Meanwhile, packers arrived, lawyers hammered out final bits of lease agreements, and so forth. Thomas carefully removed from the general mayhem items very personal to him, some things of Peter’s very dear to him. He gave away a lot of clothes to the nearby Catholic Church – they were amazed, and the “odd” French priest was seen to smile for the first time in at least a decade and a half. Yusuf was perhaps having a harder time of it: he had a brother and two sisters in the city, who thought, to varying degrees, that he was out of his mind to leave for _la perfide Albion_. He told them in no uncertain terms that he refused to abandon M’sieu in his hour of need, and that was that.

Peter’s ashes still sat in their urn on a shelf in the Studio, while Thomas wracked his brains trying to decide what to do with them. He supposed he owed it to the Pelhams to take them back to England, but he knew that was the last thing Peter would have wanted. It was Yusuf who inadvertently suggested the solution. One day they were tidying a few of the last pictures in the Studio, and Yusuf came across a drawing of Peter’s that had fallen down behind a large chest. It was one of Thomas and the grey mare from that first excursion to the hills.

_That’s it, we’ll take him up there, scatter him there. He loved that place. Far better there than in a cold vault in Northumberland!_

The next day they did just that. The grey and the pony, and, believe it or not, that mule, were still in service at Mustafa’s stables. Yusuf quietly packed some food on the mule’s back as well as strapping the urn carefully to its side.

It was a beautiful, mild day in late September, so even Yusuf didn’t bother to wrap up warm. They rode quickly along the Chemin de la Montagne (the mule behaved perfectly), then picked their way more gradually up the hill to the rocks, the trees, and the pool. The air was still, not even a bird sang. Thomas was in tears as he dismounted. Yusuf brought him the urn silently, and then stood a little way off.

_This is really good-bye, my darling. I will love you always, till the stars cease to shine, and the world is cold._

He lifted the lid from the urn, dipped in his hand, and threw the ashes before him, around the rocks, towards the trees, poured them silently into the pool. The grey mare regarded him again with her soft brown eyes, but made not a sound.

They returned home in silence, full of thoughts.

*****

October the 6th was moving day. The weather was still deliciously mild, so the evening before Thomas ate his dinner in the courtyard. When he had finished, he asked Yusuf and Ali to come and sit with him. They drank more Devil’s Tears. When they had left him, he took down a lantern from the wall, and walked round for a long time, thinking, remembering, weeping a little. He went up to the now-bare Studio, and said a final farewell, then went to bed: no ghost troubled him, no dream disturbed him.

*****

Thomas and Yusuf arrived in Brancaster six days later (trains all the way), well before everything from Le Vieux Palais, which was coming by sea. There was much to be done, the first being the purchase of multiple vests for Yusuf, who was in mortal fear of _hypothermie_ until they arrived. Bertie, also in the throes of installing himself as the new Marquess, lent Thomas several members of the estate staff to help moving furniture, putting up pictures, and the like. The Dower House was on nothing like the same scale as the Dowager’s in Downton: it was rather tucked away on the edge of the village, a modest Georgian house within a high-walled garden: two stories, with a large-ish drawing-room and dining-room, four bedrooms. Small enough for Yusuf to manage, large enough for comfort, but most importantly for Thomas, totally private _… and not bad for a clockmaker’s son from Stockport._

However, no sooner were they "in" than they were off on holiday: train to London, then Southampton and two weeks in the Azores and Madeira – poor Yusuf needed a last blast of sun before his first English winter.

The simple fact was that Thomas had more money than he knew what to do with, though of course had the sense, when he was at home, to spend as much as possible of it in the village, by buying nearly all their supplies at local shops. Thus most of the locals, if they thought at all, just thought, “that Mr Barrow’s all right, ‘e’s just a bit eccentric, what with his Arab servant, and speaking French ‘n’ all.” - Yusuf became notorious at the grocer’s for ordering weird “furrin” stuff.

During the years in Tangiers, much had happened elsewhere within Thomas’s old orbit, the most immediately notable being Bertie’s imminent wedding to Lady Edith Crawley, to which the former Downton valet and footman came as an honoured guest. Carson nearly had a seizure when he saw the Earl of Grantham’s sister greet Thomas as “darling”, with a kiss on both cheeks, while Jimmy went into complete meltdown, dropped a whole trayful of champagne glasses at the reception, and had all his half-days cancelled for the next three months. Miss O’Brien, sadly, was not present, having absconded to India as Lady’s-Maid to the Marchioness of Flintshire ( _Good riddance, I hope something large and hairy bites her!_ ) On his next visit to Brancaster for dinner he was shown Lady Edith's wedding present to the happy couple: there in the castle's great hall was "The Pale Horseman." "A fitting tribute," said Bertie. Thomas was beyond words.

Did he mourn? Of course he mourned. Yusuf was the only person other than Bertie who had known the person he mourned at all well, but there were many places in Thomas’s grief where neither could go, neither could help him. He had several of Peter’s pictures hung in the house, including one of the double portraits, which he would often stand in front of for hours at a time, his mind full of sunnier, warmer places, laughter, the memory of touch, of words, of passion. For the next couple of years Thomas tried to push this all away with a frenzy of activity: more travel, trips to London for exhibitions, visiting every auction for fifty miles around (to Lettie’s great frustration he picked up a Duncan Grant in Northallerton for twenty pounds – no-one had the faintest idea how it got there, let alone who he was!) Simply put, though, he was desperately lonely, and felt certain there would never be another person to fill that emptiness. His society was very limited, there no longer being anyone to share a pint with in a local pub, let alone talk about art with.

It was, perhaps surprisingly this time, Yusuf who put him on the track to something better. The faithful Arab always went to the village post office to buy Thomas’s copy of The Times, and would sometimes dawdle on the way back, tussling with the complexities of the English language he encountered therein. One morning in May 1927 his eye lit upon the “Personal Column”, some of the entries in which he found completely baffling. When he got back to the house, Thomas was pottering about in the kitchen, making some “Turkish” coffee.

“Ah, M’sieu Thomas,“ he asked waving the paper about, “what is this ‘Earnest and Discreet Services’?”

Thomas grabbed the paper out of his hand, “Blimey, are they still going? … I wonder.” He stood there scratching his head. “Please watch the coffee for me, Yusuf, I’m going to make a phone call.”

_This might be a fool’s errand, but I’ve always been a fool!_

It was only just after nine o’clock. As he had done on another fateful day, Thomas double clicked the cradle. “Number, please,” came the shrill operator’s voice. “Oh, long-distance, please – he hardly needed to glance at the page – Museum 4286.” “One moment, please, sir, trying to connect you – _squeak, crackle, crackle_ , then, clear as day, _ring-ring, ring-ring_ , and,

“E and D Servitheth, how may I help you?

_Good grief, it’s lithping Thimkinth!_

“Is Mr Devenish in, please?”

“He’th jutht walked thwough the door, thir. One moment, and I’ll put you thwough.”

_Click-click – ring._

“Good morning, Charles Devenish speaking.”

“Hello, Charles. This is Thomas Barrow. You may not remember me, but … “

“Of course I remember you. I heard what happened … what can I say?”

“There’s nothing to be said, nothing … Look, I think I need your help. May I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“Since Peter died, it’s been hell. Can you understand that?”

“Of course.”

“I have no-one, no-one just to talk to, to go to a play with, to look at a painting with, let alone to hold me. Peter was so wonderful, and now there’s just this void.” Thomas was nearly in tears.

“I know what that feels like … “

“The reason I’m ringing is: can you help me? I know I could buy a semblance of what I want, what we all want, but I couldn’t do that, I’ve seen what it can do to a man. Just like Peter, I need someone to get me focused on something, anything, to pick me up off the floor I’m grovelling on, to give me a good shake when I’m down. Nothing else … necessarily, but who knows?”

“You need a _‘monsieur de compagnie’_.”

“Exactly – if a rich lady can advertise for a lady companion, can’t an old queen do something similar?”

“May I be frank with you? You’re not old, you're what, thirty-five or so? ... and made of flesh and blood, just like the rest of us." He paused. "I think there's no need to advertise either ... I may have just the person.”

“Really, that’s wonderful! Look, I trust your judgment implicitly. Send me his details, and unless you get a panic call from me within a day, send him along – I’ll pay his train fare.”

“Will do, I think you’ll like him! You know, it’s been lovely to talk to you again after all these years. Let’s have dinner again sometime.”

“Same place, same carnation?”

“Why not?”

Laughing, they hung up.

The next day a thin brown envelope dropped through the Dower House’s letter-box. It had a Bloomsbury postmark.

“That’ll be from Charles,” murmured Thomas. He put it on the hall table, and promptly forgot all about it.

Two days later, he was sitting in the back garden in the afternoon sunshine, when the front doorbell rang. Yusuf answered it, and Thomas could hear murmuring from the hallway. Then,

“M’sieu’ Thomas, you ‘ave a visitor?”

“Really, I’m not expecting any … “

“Oh, sorry about that,” said a warm voice and a pair of warm brown eyes above a winning smile, “E and D sent me. I’m Richard Ellis.”


End file.
